


Whatever a Moon Has Meant; Whatever a Sun Will Sing

by Beckers522



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Military, Angst, Aziraphale is a British soldier, Crowley is a German fighter pilot, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21989038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckers522/pseuds/Beckers522
Summary: There was a photograph, torn down the middle. Pieces scattered as far as the East is from the West. Thousands of kilometers separated them now, as the world fell to pieces around them. And yet, if someone were to look closely, if someone were to traverse the space between them and lay the folded and worn parchment flat on the table, if someone were to line them up just so, they might realize that the two pieces fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, Like the gears of a clock. Like a nut and a bolt.Almost as if they were made from the same stock.This is a tale of love and of loss. Of heartache and of hope. Told in three parts, follow Aziraphale and Crowley as they navigate the hardships of growing up, the horrors of war, and the miraculous wonder of finding love in the most unlikely of places.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 546
Kudos: 410
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "i carry your heart with me(i carry it in  
> my heart)i am never without it(anywhere  
> i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done  
> by only me is your doing,my darling)  
> i fear  
> no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want  
> no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)  
> and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
> and whatever a sun will always sing is you
> 
> here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
> (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
> and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
> higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
> and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
> 
> i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"
> 
> -e. e. cummings
> 
> ***
> 
> I'm back again with my shenanigans. Here's another heartbreaking historical AU for you all to enjoy. I doubt I'll be able to keep up the same pace as with "The Stars Walk Backward", but with the right encouragement, who knows?
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are everything. I seriously live for them, so please, don't be shy :) I want to hear all of your thoughts.
> 
> This one goes out to Lei_sam :) without their crazy prompts (https://twitter.com/Leisan24657341/status/1205068529512452096) I never would have come up with this story.

* * *

There was a photograph torn down the middle, glued to the inside of an ancient pocket watch, tucked into the breast pocket of his uniform, resting as a gentle weight over his heart. Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, when all the guns and the bombs and the sirens had stopped their clamoring, he could feel the soft ticking of the gears. He could almost imagine it was like another heartbeat pressed against his own.

Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, he allowed himself to close his eyes and dream. Not _remember_ , for he had never been lucky enough for this to be a memory. Not _anticipate_ , for he knew it would never come to pass. Not _wish_ , because wishes were real and the knowledge that his could never come true was too great a burden for his grief-laden heart. He dreamed of long arms wrapped around him. He dreamed of the warmth of another body tucked up against his own. He dreamed of being lulled to sleep by the sound of gentle breathing and the soft pitter-patter of a heartbeat he would never forget.

He dreamed of comfort. He dreamed of love.

He dreamed of home.

_Sometimes_ , when he was alone, he would pull the watch out and trace his fingers around the smooth surface, imagining the flecks of tarnish to be a scattering of freckles against pale skin. Sometimes, when he despaired, he would tilt the watch back and forth in his palms, imagining the glint of moonlight to be honey-colored eyes shining with warmth as they gazed up at him. Sometimes, when his heart was breaking and he wanted to crumble to ash and dust, he would let the watch rest in the palm of his hand and imagine the weight of it was the hand of another. Strong and sure and _right here_ with him through it all.

Sometimes, when he felt himself forgetting, when he felt like all the color was draining from the world, when he was certain the only feeling left in existence was hate, he would press his thumb down on the worn clasp and watch as the contraption sprung open. He would slowly slide his finger up underneath the covering and stare down at the face smiling brightly up at him and his heart would slowly start to piece itself back together. He would smile, with tears in his eyes and a pain in his throat and silently slip the timepiece back into his pocket, where it belonged.

As close to his heart as it could possibly get.

* * *

There was a photograph torn down the middle, tucked in between the metal nuts and bolts and dials and gauges that sat in front of him as he flew high above the world. It traveled with him everywhere. Over oceans and plains. Over forests and mountains. Across the invisible borders that people had drawn to separate themselves from one another. Yours and mine. Us and them. Enemy and friend. From up here, the lines seemed so blurred. So pointless.

He’d wanted to paste it down. Wanted to cement the picture in his line of sight for the rest of eternity, but the plane wasn’t his to keep. Eventually, his mission would be over and he would return to the ground. He would climb out of the front seat and watch as someone else took over, and he would be damned if he let anyone else have that small token, even for a moment.

No, he would rather have it temporarily wedged between two screws, the constant friction slowly wearing away the corners, than allow some other _half-wit_ anywhere near.

_I’ll take you to the stars._ Wasn’t that what he’d said all those years ago? Was this close enough? Flying high above the clouds as the sun set behind him with only the ghost of a memory to keep him company?

_I’ll take you to the stars._ He’d meant every word back then. He meant it all now. He would travel there in a heartbeat if it meant they could both escape from this Hell on Earth. He would whisk them both away. Away from the fighting. Away from the death, the destruction, the slow deterioration of the human soul.

_I’ll take you to the stars._ He glanced up at the darkening sky, memories of another life drifting to the surface. Memories of soft looks. Of gentle hands and warm lips. Of beating hearts and shooting stars and summers that he thought would never end.

He kept the photograph tucked there in front of him as he flew above the world not for aesthetics’ sake. Not because he was expected to. Not to remind him of his reason for fighting. He kept the photograph in front of him for one simple reason.

They were at war. And if the impossible happened, there was only one sight he wanted to be his very last.

* * *

A photograph, torn down the middle. Pieces scattered as far as the East is from the West. Thousands of kilometers separated them now, as the world fell to pieces around them. And yet, if someone were to look closely, if someone were to traverse the space between them and lay the folded and worn parchment flat on the table, if someone were to line them up _just so_ , they might realize that the two pieces fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, Like the gears of a clock. Like a nut and a bolt.

Almost as if they were made from the same stock.


	2. Part 1: Autumn 1906

The teacher was talking, but Aziraphale wasn’t listening. Aziraphale didn’t have to listen. Glancing briefly up at the clock, he saw that it was only 7:57, which meant class didn’t start for another three minutes. He wasn’t required to tune in to the conversation for one hundred and eighty more seconds and the boy was determined to use that time to its fullest potential. 

Doing so meant focusing his entire attention on the book that was now resting gently on the desk in front of him. It was a secondhand copy of one of his favorite books - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “A Study in Scarlet”. Aziraphale owned a first edition copy as well, but that one resided on the top shelf of the bookcase in his dorm room and was only moved in the summer months when he was forced to leave Eton College and return home to London.

When those three minutes had run their course, Aziraphale looked around the room. He found, to his surprise, that an unfamiliar student had taken up residence at a desk two rows in front of his own and one place to the right. This was only his second year at Eton, but Aziraphale hadn’t realized that the school took on new students mid-grade, especially not three weeks into the beginning of fall term.

He couldn’t see much of the boy’s face from this angle, only hints at an angular jawline and a head full of the brightest copper curls Aziraphale had ever seen. For the briefest of moments, the boy thought there had been some sort of mistake. Eton was an all-boys boarding school. It had been since its inception back in 1440. There was no way they would have let a girl attend, especially not wearing a uniform like theirs. A heartbeat later, the boy’s head turned slightly to the left and Aziraphale realized his mistake.

The newcomer had rather long hair for a boy, reaching down just past his shoulders, but Aziraphale was certain that he was, in fact, a boy. His face was too sharp to belong to a girl. Even from his position several desks away, Aziraphale could see the dusting of copper hair along the boy’s cheek, the barest hint of a beard starting to make its presence known.

Discretely, Aziraphale reached up to touch his own face as he slid his book closed and placed it inside his neatly organized desk. At fourteen years of age, he hadn’t yet displayed many symptoms of transitioning into adulthood. His face was still round and smooth. He was a great deal shorter than many of his classmates, even his voice was still higher in pitch like many of the other junior boys that called Eton their home during the school year. 

Not wanting to be caught staring, Aziraphale turned his attention back to the teacher at the front of the room. They would be diving into Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” today, another one of Aziraphale’s favorites. He was quite looking forward to the discussions they would have later on in the week once they’d been given a proper amount of time to get into the texts. Naturally, Aziraphale had read it already, but he hadn’t had much of a chance to discuss his thoughts on the subject. It would be interesting to see what his classmates thought of the story.

One of the boys, Andrew MacMillan, was called forth to the front of the room and asked to pass out the texts - small palm sized books bound with a plain blue cover. Aziraphale took his happily and snuck another glance toward the new student. He watched with bright blue eyes as the unfamiliar boy took one look at the book placed on his desk and shoved it to the side, close enough to the edge that Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, imagining the item toppling over the edge and striking the floor with a loud thud.

What if the pages got bent, or the spine snapped in two? These books were not necessarily fragile, but they were not new either. They had seen better days and to act so indifferently toward something as precious as a book like this was just horrible.

At the very last second, the boy drew his arm back toward his chest, leaving the edge of the book sticking precariously out into the aisle as he opened up a notebook and began to sketch something in the margins. A small huff escaped Aziraphale’s mouth as he turned his attention away, desperately trying to ignore the sudden relief that filled his chest. The nerve of that boy. “Hamlet” was one of the greatest masterpieces in all of English literature. And he’d just tossed it aside without a second glance. 

Perhaps, over the next few weeks, Aziraphale would be able to change the boy’s mind. What a fun challenge that would be. He smiled to himself and opened up the palm-sized text to the first page and readied himself for the day’s lesson.

* * *

“Ugh,” one of the boys in front of Aziraphale groaned, stopping suddenly enough that the blonde haired boy nearly barreled straight into him. He managed to steady himself in time, balancing the tray between both his hands as his book lay wedged between his arm and the side of his chest. Blue eyes scanned the room, looking for the source of disgust. Upon finding nothing, Aziraphale waited, biting his tongue gently while the students in front of him continued to hover in place, backing up the line of students behind them trying to find a seat.

“That Boche is sitting at our table.”

Aziraphale started at the harsh term. Where in the world had that come from? As far as he knew, this boy had done nothing to any of them. He’d spent most of their Literature class drawing in his notebook and had moved on to making paper airplanes by the time Algebra had rolled around. What in the world would have possessed any of them to use such a name toward someone they hardly knew.

“Should we go make him move?” one of the younger looking boys asked as he glanced over at his friends. He was one of the few students in his year that was actually shorter than Aziraphale, which was saying something. 

“We could rough him up a bit,” a dark-haired boy suggested. “Make sure he gets the message. He can’t just waltz in here from some other country and take what’s rightfully ours, you know. I’d like to give him a nice ringer, right in his pretty little face.”

The blonde haired boy rolled his eyes. He’d known these boys for over a year and was quite confident they would do nothing of the sort. Not with Mrs. Dawlish, their house mother, standing right by the front door to the dining hall. They were all much more afraid of getting on her bad side than giving up a single table to a new student that probably had no idea the trouble he was causing.

“Whatever you decide to do,” Aziraphale finally cut in, feeling his book starting to slide out from where it was currently pinned, “would you mind doing it a bit quicker?” The boys turned to look at him and he gave them his best disapproving stare. “Some of us would like to sit down to eat our food.”

The students in front of him looked at him sheepishly, hurrying off to the left where there were still plenty of empty tables to sit at. Aziraphale huffed again and moved to the nearest one, placing his tray down on the wooden surface first before slipping the book from underneath his arm and settling it beside him on the table.

Aziraphale was not very fond of lunchtime during the week. Every day, they sat and had dinner together in each of the dormitory houses, but lunch was served in a giant mess hall. The chatter of several hundred teenage boys became overwhelming over the course of minutes. By the time he had settled into his seat and pulled out his book to begin reading again, there was already a dull throbbing sensation behind his eyes and he was finding it very difficult to concentrate on the words swimming on the page before him.

He didn’t know the reason behind his actions, but as Aziraphale turned to the next page in his novel, where the brilliant Sherlock Holmes would undoubtedly stumble across his next clue into discovering the truth behind the murder of the very wealthy  Enoch Drebber, he looked up. Immediately, his gaze fell upon the red-haired boy and found, to his surprise, the other student was looking directly at him.

The corners of the boy’s lips tugged upward a bit. His response couldn’t quite be defined as a smile. If anything, Aziraphale might have classified it as a smirk, or an amused grin.  He watched as the boy’s eyes slid over to the opposite side of the hall where those bullies had run off to, then back to Aziraphale’s own face. His schoolmate’s grin grew wider.

He’d known! That clever bastard had heard everything those boys had said about him and had done absolutely nothing. He’d claimed his space at the school without having to lift a single finger. 

Aziraphale had to hand it to him. If he’d been in the boy’s shoes, there was no way the blonde-haired boy would have been able to stand his ground in such a way. He would have leapt to his feet in an instant and found some other remote corner of the room to sit in. Even before the other boys had threatened violence.

Not this boy. This boy had taken his time. He’d waited them out, judging those boys to be much more cowardly than the facade they wore day in and day out suggested them to be. Willing to dive headfirst into a confrontation had he been mistaken. Aziraphale was in awe of his audacity.

Returning the red-haired boy’s smile with an approving nod, Aziraphale turned back to the book at hand, the thunderous roar of voices and the gentle pounding in his head completely forgotten.

* * *

The world was ending. That was the only explanation for the explosion of sound that ricochet off the ceiling above him, abruptly waking Aziraphale from his slumber. He’d been dreaming about something - likely something to do with ghosts and princes. Or perhaps pears. He rather liked pears and had been craving a taste of one since yesterday afternoon when they’d started a lesson on still life paintings in Art History.

Several heartbeats passed by before Aziraphale realized it had been the rain pounding down on the rooftop above that had woken him. He shuffled out of bed, wandering over to the window at the back of his room to take a look. Sure enough, he found dark grey clouds looming overhead, pouring out their contents on all of the greater London area. Sheets of rain so dense he could barely see the other dormitories crashed down from the heavens, doing its best to smite the ground below. 

“What a lovely day this is going to be,” Aziraphale grumbled as he set about his morning routine. He grabbed some biscuits from a tin he’d stowed away, munching on them as he put on his uniform. Most mornings, the boy allowed himself time to eat a proper breakfast, but there was no way in hell he was going to walk all the way across campus to the dining hall in weather like this. Best to take the extra time to read over his passages for class that morning, and munch happily away at the food he’d saved for himself.

Time passed by quickly, and before he knew it, Aziraphale was packing up his book-bag, dreading the trek to the schoolhouse. The rain had not relented even a bit in the time since he’d woken and the boy was now realizing he was going to have to brave the storm at some point, if he hoped to make it to class on time.

Gently, he slipped the tin container into his bag alongside his texts and notebooks. He would have to restock at lunchtime this afternoon. His supply was getting dangerously low for someone who enjoyed snacks as much as Aziraphale did. The boy was quite certain that if he did nothing, he would run out before the week was up.

When he finally made his way downstairs, several of the boys were already dressed for the day and huddled together by the front door, peering out at the pathways currently being swallowed whole by the runoff as it raced like rapid rivers towards the London sewers. As he stood on the tips of his toes, peeking up in between the tall heads and broad shoulders of the older boys, Aziraphale could see sheets of rain pounding relentlessly against the earth. There was also something else - a single figure, dressed in the familiar black tailcoat, vest, and dark trousers of the Eton school uniform, alone outside underneath the growing storm. 

Who was that student? What was he doing walking to class in this weather? They still had nearly twenty minutes before the bell rang. There was still a chance the rain could let up, sparing them all the unpleasant walk. And why on earth, if he was going this early, wasn’t he at least carrying an umbrella? All the boys had them. Just as each of them had several sets of uniformed clothes, each student had been issued with a hat and scarf, winter gloves, an athletic uniform they mostly used to play cricket, and a sturdy black umbrella to use precisely on days like today. 

One of the younger boys snorted rather loudly in front of Aziraphale. “He really is a Boche,” he remarked, echoing the insult from the previous afternoon. “Who walks out in the middle of a monsoon dressed like that?”

“Blockhead,” another boy echoes from behind Aziraphale.

“He’s a right fish out of water, that one,” a third voice joined in, causing the blonde-haired boy’s stomach to lurch unpleasantly. “Or rather, a fish drowning in water, wouldn’t you say?”

The other boys laughed and it took all of Aziraphale’s willpower not to shove them all face first into the puddle of water slowly growing at their feet by the front door. Honestly, what a load of rubbish. Everything they were saying was complete and utter bollocks. 

“Oi! Fell!” One of the senior boys shouted at Aziraphale as he clutched his umbrella tightly to his chest and shoved through the wall of adolescents and out into the pouring rain. His eyes lay fixed on his target, heart hammering away in his chest as he began the inevitably disastrous journey toward morning classes. 

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

The louder they yelled at him, the faster Aziraphale found his feet walking until the boy was practically racing across the lawn. He would have kept to the normal walkways, but those routes were currently submerged in several inches of murky brown water. At least the grassy fields between his dormitory and the schoolhouse were marginally better at absorbing the onslaught of precipitation from the heavens. That, and Aziraphale had learned in geometry class that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. If he wanted to keep them both from getting soaked to the bone, it was best to travel directly to the boy, not lollygag his way about the flooded walkways.

As he approached, Aziraphale realized just how soaking wet this boy had become in the relatively short walk he’d taken so far. The bright red ringlets of hair from yesterday had turned almost black with the sheer amount of water seeping in between every strand. His coat was dripping with moisture and a dark stain was already creeping its way up his pants, starting from his sopping shoes and reaching halfway up to his knees.

The boy turned to face Aziraphale as the heavy pressure of the heavens opening up above him suddenly ceased. He was taller than the blonde boy, by nearly twelve centimeters, and as Aziraphale looked up into his eyes, the boy felt the breath rush from his lungs like wind through a pin-straight tunnel.

They were the most beautiful golden-brown he had ever seen. Like crystalized amber or the evening sunlight filtering in through a wide window. Aziraphale was mesmerized by them and forgot where he was and why he was standing there for five whole seconds before the wind picked up around them and threatened to tear the umbrella right out of his grasp.

A strong hand darted out and grabbed onto the infernal device, tugging it back down so it covered both of their heads and shoulders, protecting the pair as much as it could given the present circumstances. Aziraphale looked up at the other boy hesitantly, feeling the warmth of the boy’s hand mere millimeters above his own, both gripping the erratic umbrella like their lives depended on it.

“You can have my jacket, if you like,” Aziraphale offered suddenly as they started walking again, not really sure why he would be possessed to say such a thing. “Once we get inside.” He supposed he felt a bit bad for the boy, after everything he’d been forced to endure so far. Being new to a school, especially one as tight knit and prestigious as Eton couldn’t be easy. 

What was his name again? Upon giving himself a moment to remember, Aziraphale found that he could not. Under his companion’s bright stare, the blonde-haired boy felt his face beginning to flush. If only he bothered to pay attention the previous morning. Aziraphale was sure that the boy’s name had been revealed before class while he’d been too busy engrossed in his text.

“I would hate for you to go the whole day drenched from head to toe…” he trailed off, hoping that the boy might interject. That he might say  _ something.  _ That, perhaps, the boy might even introduce himself officially.

Aziraphale’s hopes were answered in the next breath as the boy smiled softly at him and replied with one simple word. “Crowley.”

“Crowley,” the blonde-haired boy repeated, testing the word out on his tongue. It settled in nicely, filling out the space in his mouth and echoing in the air between them. A smile tugged at the corner of Aziraphale’s lips and he let it take hold. A soft warmth settled into his chest when Crowley smiled back.

“Well,” Crowley began, his smile widening into a full on grin. “If I accept your offer, I suppose I’ll only be drenched from hip to toe instead, which is a right improvement. Although,” the boy paused, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Aziraphale noticed that Crowley’s voice sounded a bit odd. Almost as if he had an accent of some sort, one that the boy could not place. It wasn’t German, like the horrid terms thrown Crowley’s way had suggested. At least, not completely. There was something else thrown in the mix. Scottish perhaps? Or Irish? Aziraphale couldn’t be sure.

“I can’t just go around accepting gifts from strangers. My mother taught me better than that.”

A bright laugh escaped Aziraphale’s lips. He stuck out a hand in greeting and nearly lost control of the umbrella as a violent gust of wind tried to rip it from his grasp. Rain pelted the tops of their heads for a few moments as the blonde haired boy gripped the handle with all his might and pulled it back down toward them so they were shielded once more.

“Aziraphale,” he panted, keeping both hands in place this time. “My name is Aziraphale.”

He half expected Crowley to make some sort of joke. All of the other children had, at some point or another, until they had realized that Azirpahale simply didn’t care about their taunting and they’d left him alone. The boy knew his name was strange, made worse when it was coupled with a surname like ‘Fell’. 

Crowley did nothing but smile at him, stepping off the grass and onto a section of paved walkway that was faring a bit better than its muddy counterparts in this storm. “I’m impressed,” he announced after a moment. “That is a name I’ve never heard before. And I’ve heard a lot of names in my day.”

A chuckle escaped Aziraphale’s mouth before he could stop it. The warmth that had settled into his chest at Crowley’s first smile pulsed lightly, trickling down to the ends of his very cold fingers. “‘Your day’? How old are you, fourteen?”

The red-haired boy huffed, sticking out his chest as he tucked a stray, drenched curl behind his ear. “Fifteen,” he corrected, feigning indignation. Aziraphale could tell he was only joking. That is, the boy hoped Crowley was only joking. He would hate to unintentionally upset his new acquaintance. Not when things were going so well. 

Aziraphale found that he was rather enjoying himself, despite the cold wind and sheets of rain pounding on the thin black surface above them. His shoes were soaked through, forcing him to deal with uncomfortable squelchy socks until at least lunchtime when he could go back to his room and change. And yet, the boy felt a bubble of disappointment well up inside of him as the pair rounded the corner and their destination came into view.

“Your sleeve is getting drenched,” Crowley pointed out softly, looking over to his right. Aziraphale followed his gaze and saw, to his horror, that the boy was right. He’d been so preoccupied with their conversation that the thought to keep his arms tucked in closely beside him to avoid the curtain of rain surrounding them had completely escaped him. Quickly, Aziraphale released one hand from the umbrella and reached over to brush as much of the water off as he could, hoping that the section of cloth would dry quickly enough once they got inside.

“Bugger,” Aziraphale found himself muttering as he flashed an apologetic glance in Crowley’s direction. The boy simply grinned, restoring that warm feeling inside of Aziraphale’s chest. Without saying another word, Crowley took a half step closer to Aziraphale, reaching a hand up to help him grasp the umbrella that had once again tried to escape from the blonde boy’s grasp. 

With two hands, the boys brought it under control and fell into step with one another, as they rounded the final corner and stepped inside the schoolhouse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of four sub-chapters in Part 1 (Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer). All of these chapters will take place while Crowley and Azirpahale are junior boys at boarding school. After they are completed, there will be a time skip to the middle of World War 1 where most of our story will take place.
> 
> Thanks so much for taking the time to check this story out. If you are enjoying it so far, please feel free to let me know! I cannot express to you how excited I get each time a notification appears in my inbox telling me I have a new comment to read :)
> 
> See you all again soon!
> 
> P.S. I've done some preliminary research for this story, but I find myself looking in to certain things as they come up. I am not a history expert, so if I muck anything up accidentally, I apologize! 
> 
> For those who don't know or don't feel like looking it up, 'Boche' is a derogatory term that was aimed at Germans starting in the late 1800s. It originated in France and means something along the lines of "cabbage-head".


	3. Part 1: Winter 1906

“This is complete bullocks. I hope you know that. One great, heaping pile of mangled bullocks.”

Aziraphale looked up from his book at the red-haired companion leaning against the desk in front of him. It was lunchtime, and nearly all the boys in their class had retired to the mess hall to eat. Recently, Aziraphale and Crowley had opted to stay behind and munch on food they had brought with them leftover from breakfast. Despite his distaste for partially dried out biscuits and room temperature fruit, Aziraphale found that having a moment away from all the chaos was worth the sacrifice.

Having time alone with Crowley also wasn’t such a terrible thing.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale replied, placing his bookmark gently in the center of the tome before shutting it and turning toward his friend. “What, exactly, is a ‘great heaping pile of’...” the blonde haired boy paused, trying to remember what Crowley had said. “Of...well, of whatever you just said.”

Crowley smiled at him, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his amber eyes. Aziraphale felt that familiar warmth blossoming in his chest as he gazed up at this boy that, for reasons unknown to him, had decided that Aziraphale was the only classmate of his worth talking to.

“Mangled bullocks.”

Aziraphale nodded his head in agreement, still not quite understanding what Crowley was complaining about. The holiday season was almost upon them. Just three weeks out from Christmas, and a week and a half from being sent home for the holidays, the boys at Eton were practically done with their schoolwork. All that remained between them and two long weeks of freedom were a few term papers and a large Christmas feast to close out the end of fall term.

“You don’t seem very put out about it,” Crowley remarked after a moment of silence passed between them. Aziraphale realized he’d allowed himself to drift off again, thinking about all the scrumptious food and caroling and the games they would play together when their families arrived. The Christmas Festival was one of Aziraphale’s favorite days of the year. Each of the boys was permitted to invite his family out for the night. They would sit down and dine together at several large tables set up in the banquet hall. If this year was anything like the previous one, there would certainly be all sorts of wonderful food. Roast duck, ham, potatoes, a vegetable medley.

And the desserts! Oh, the desserts: mince pie, Christmas pudding, and his favorite trifles. Aziraphale could hardly stand the wait. Nevermind all the other festivities they had planned. He would be happy enough with just the Christmas dinner they all shared.

“Put out about what, dear?” he asked softly. The only way he was going to find out just what had his friend all wound up was asking him directly. “I’m afraid I’m not following.”

Crowley simply rolled his eyes, a tinge of red appearing on his cheeks as he wordlessly handed Aziraphale a small slip of paper with a single word scrawled across the surface.

_Star._

Ah. Now he understood. Crowley was talking about the pageant.

“Would you have preferred a different role?” Aziraphale asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps Mary? Or the stable donkey?”

The boy’s hand darted out from across his chest and shoved playfully against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’d rather be a stack of hay that the cows feast upon than a bloody _star_ ,” he admitted, a frown sliding onto his face that made the blonde-haired boy’s heart clench inside his chest. “How is that even going to work? Are they going to suspend me on a rope hanging from the ceiling? Will I be dressed in all yellow with a paper cut out around my face?”

Aziraphale laughed, heart warming again as the sound drew forth a smile from his friend. It was a small one, slightly nervous. Slightly annoyed. But it was there.

“Nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale explained, thinking back to what the older students had done the previous year. Eton’s Christmas Festival was widely attended by students and family alike. Each of the classes was in charge of some aspect of the evening’s festivities. Some put together the decorations. Some helped prepare the food. Some were in charge of the music or the games or the candlelight service that closed out the night.

This year, their class had been chosen for the Nativity Pageant. After the meal was complete, everyone would retire to the sanctuary where Aziraphale and his classmates would reenact the story of the Nativity. Each one of them had received a role to play and as soon as the term was complete, they would begin rehearsals.

“You’ll be standing up on some platforms hidden behind the stable,” Aziraphale explained. “And you’ll likely be dressed in white. Not yellow.”

Crowley scoffed, reaching out to pull out the chair behind him so he could sit down. Aziraphale watched as the boy swung a limber leg upward and around so he was sitting backward on the seat, facing Aziraphale with both elbows propped up on the desk between them. “Sounds right boring to me. Standing up there all alone while the rest of you lot get to prance around the stage. Will I even be able to see what’s going on down there?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’d imagine you’d be able to see some of it. The wise men, likely. And maybe the shepherds.”

“Like I said,” Crowley snorted, reaching a hand up to run it through his copper curls. Aziraphale watched as they shifted in the sunlight, the strands on top seeming to catch fire under the afternoon’s golden glow. “One great, heaping pile of mangled bullocks. The whole thing.”

With each word, the boy leaned in a bit closer, his voice growing much quieter. Their noses were mere centimeters away from each other and Aziraphale found himself transfixed by the amber gaze, coming to life just as his hair had a moment before. Warm breath tickled the soft hairs on his cheek as a comfortable silence fell between them.

“You won’t be alone,” Aziraphale found himself whispering as he stared at the wide eyes before him. Breath stilled in his chest as he felt a gentle brush of skin against his pinky finger. The boy’s blue eyes flicked down for the briefest second and watched as Crowley's fingertips, which had been touching him moments ago, danced back to an empty space on the desk.

“Haven’t you ever seen a Nativity before?” the boy continued when it was clear his friend was not going to respond. “The star isn’t the only thing that stands watch during the night. You’ll be joined by an angel of the Lord.”

In a sudden change of demeanor, Crowley rolled his eyes and leaned back. “Bloody brilliant.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the handful of boys that were starting to filter into the classroom. The lunch hour was almost over. Soon enough, the boys would be resuming their lessons for the afternoon and Aziraphale would have to wait until after dinnertime to spend more time with his friend. “It’s just my luck that I’ll have to spend a bloody eternity up there stuck with one of those... _boneheads._ ”

A bright smile appeared on Aziraphale’s face as warmth blossomed in his chest. There was no way he could have held the reaction back, no matter how hard he tried. “Really, dear. If that’s how you really think of me, you could have said something earlier.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open and before he could say a single word in protest, Aziraphale reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, also engraved with one solitary word.

_Angel._

* * *

Rehearsal took place the entire day before the festival was to take place. As Crowley had previously conjectured, their part in the whole thing was rather boring. Aziraphale, as the angel, and Crowley as the star of Bethlehem, had been placed on the top steps of the chapel. For the majority of the production, they were expected to sit down and stay out of sight. Only once they heard the cue of ‘baa-ing’ sheep were they supposed to stand up on their platforms.

The lights positioned above them would be flicked on, shining a spotlight down on them both. Aziraphale would proclaim to the shepherds the good news and remain in sight for the rest of the performance as everyone flocked to the stable to bear witness to the baby Jesus.

They were running through that scene now, explaining what would happen when and who was in charge of making sure the storyline progressed at each point. The entire class had gathered at the front of the chapel. Some of the students playing characters in the pageant sat up on the stage where the stable was currently set up, or in one of the front three pews. Other classmates, who were responsible for the lighting or the music, gathered in the back of the room, going over notes, rehearsing their music, or simply goofing around under the less than watchful eyes of their teacher.

“Oi! Fell! You paying attention?” Henry Wilson shouted as he turned to face the two boys standing above them. Aziraphale just nodded his head, feeling that a vocal response would be lost in the chaotic chatter of two dozen boys all discussing things that had nothing to do with the performance that would be given the following night.

“Right,” Wilson continued, his voice fading back into the chatter. Aziraphale had to strain his ears to hear what was said next. Something about where the shepherds and their sheep were supposed to go once Aziraphale’s speech was completed. As far as he was aware, Aziraphale just had to sit here for approximately twenty minutes, stand when he heard the sheep, and recite his lines. 

“Why do they call you that?”

Aziraphale looked up from the scene unfolding below them, feeling a frown beginning to tug at his lips. So far, all they had done that morning was talk their way through the positioning. Aziraphale now knew where he was supposed to be during every part of the show, but he hadn’t actually practiced what he was supposed to say. What if he messed it up? What if his voice cracked? What if he wasn’t loud enough and the shepherds didn’t hear him?

There were so many ways this could go wrong. Why, oh why had he agreed to do this? Aziraphale would have been much better off as a cow. Or a donkey. Animal noises he could make. Important angelic proclamations? Surely there was someone else better suited for such a task. 

“What?” Aziraphale forced himself to pay attention to his friend. Crowley, already having grown bored with all the pointless discussion, had taken a seat on the wooden box beneath him, letting his legs splay out over the wooden steps below. At Aziraphale’s question, he glanced up from his currently shifting feet, and fixed his eyes on the blonde-haired boy’s face.

“Fell,” he explained, simply. “Why do they call you Fell? Seems a bit weird to shorten your name and use the second half instead of the first. It’d be the same as calling me ‘Ley’, wouldn’t it? Seems right strange, if you ask me.”

For a moment, Aziraphale stared at the boy, not comprehending what he was being asked. Then, as Crowley’s words began to sink in, Aziraphale found himself laughing.

“What?” Crowley demanded, sitting up instantly, placing his feet firmly underneath him. Aziraphale glanced at him through crinkled eyes, reaching up a hand to wipe the stray tear away as he struggled to get his laughter under control. “What’s so funny?”

Aziraphale grinned. “Fell is my last name, Crowley,” he explained, watching as the boy’s amber eyes widened.

“No,” Crowley breathed, a mirroring grin beginning on his own face. “Your God-given name is Aziraphale Fell? How did I not know that?”

Another laugh echoed from Aziraphale’s lips. His eyes flickered down to the congregation of students gathered below. Wilson was still talking to them all, going over where the three wise men would enter from and how they would proceed down the aisle. “Aziraphale Zacchaeus Fell, to be precise,” he announced, reaching out a hand as if he were introducing himself for the first time. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Crowley’s hand closed the distance between them, grabbing onto Aziraphale’s hand with fervor, shaking it firmly and respectfully, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Antony J. Crowley. The pleasure is all mine.”

Aziraphale already knew Crowley’s first name was Antony. He’d discovered that one of the first days he’d talked to the boy. The ‘J’ was new, though.

“What’s the J for?” he asked curiously, realizing that their hands were still holding onto each other. Crowley’s hand was warm, almost hot to the touch, and infinitely softer than he would have ever expected it to be. His fingers were long and brushed up gently across the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist, sending tingles of energy up Aziraphale’s arm and down his spine. Warmth filled him from head to toe, starting in his chest and flowing outward to his very extremities, before returning inward and finding a place to settle in the lower part of his stomach.

Aziraphale dropped Crowley’s hand suddenly and offered the boy a smile, trying to force away the blush he was certain was beginning to stain his cheeks that very moment.

Crowley shrugged, shoving both hands into his pockets as he glanced away, amber eyes drifting down to the students still gathered below. They had moved on to the wise men now, and were currently aligning themselves on stage, ensuring that the entire cast would be seen by every member of the audience.

“Just a ‘J’, really.”

Before the blonde-haired boy could say anything else, he was interrupted by Wilson as the boy took charge, directing everyone to the beginning of the show. As the students scrabbled to get into place, the dark-haired boy turned toward Aziraphale and waved him over.

“You wanted to see me?” Aziraphale asked as he approached the boy. Henry Wilson was only a few centimeters taller than him, but he was much broader. At fifteen years old, the boy already had secured a spot for himself on the school’s cricket team and was setting his sights on getting involved in rugby in the following years. Aziraphale had no doubt in his mind his classmate would succeed.

Wilson looked down at Aziraphale with a sharp nod, his brown eyes already glancing down at the clipboard in his hands. For the first time, Aziraphale wondered just how the boy had been put in charge of this production. Was ‘director’ one of the roles that had been written on a slip of paper? Or had one of the teachers asked him to do it. He never would have guessed it, but Wilson had a natural talent for this sort of thing. The other boys listened to him when he spoke and his ability to work through problems had really come to light over the past two hours.

“Right,” Wilson began, still not looking over at Aziraphale’s face. “I talked to the musicians and we’ve decided to move one of the songs around a bit. Instead of all of us singing ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’ as the shepherds are travelling down the aisle on their way to the stable, we’re going to start the song right after your speech. You’ll sing the first verse alone and then we’ll join in at the chorus.”

“You want me to sing?”

Wilson rolled his eyes as several of the boys standing next to him snickered. “Yes, Fell. Are you deaf? S’what I just said.”

Aziraphale’s stomach fell to the floor. It was one thing to have to recite a handful of memorized lines and a completely different thing to have to _sing_. In front of a whole crowd of people.

“I don’t know if that’s - “ the boy began, only to be cut off by Wilson’s harsh stare.

“Can you sing?” the other boy asked directly, pointing the end of his pen at Aziraphale’s face.

“Yes,” the boy squeaked, feeling his heart begin to take off at a sprinter’s speed. “But - “

The followup question came almost immediately. “Do you know the words?”

Again, against his will, Aziraphale nodded. “Of course - “

Wilson raised an eyebrow, cutting him off for a third time. “Then I don’t see what the issue is, Fell. Back to your post. I’ll cue you when to start.”

White-faced and certain he was about to pass out, the boy turned around and returned to his spot at the top of the stairs, choosing to remain on his feet as he paced worriedly back and forth.

“It’ll be alright, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured as the chatter in the room faded away into nothingness. Time to run the show through for the first time. If Aziraphale was lucky, it would crash and burn long before the shepherds were visited in their field. He was almost certain that if asked to sing right now, Aziraphale would surely pass out. “It’s just a little song.” Crowley reached out and tugged at the boy’s sleeve, bringing him to his seat on the floor, out of sight for the time being. “One of your favorites,” he pressed with a gentle smile, “based on how much you’ve been humming it these past few weeks when you think no one’s listening.”

“But what if I mess up?” Aziraphale asked, feeling the panic rising in his chest once more. He couldn’t do this. Someone else would just have to take his place. If he called out sick now, it shouldn’t be an issue. Wilson could find someone to replace him and they’d still have all day to practice. Everything would be just fine without him. “What if I sing it wrong?”

The smile that Crowley gave him then pushed all of the boy’s fears completely out of his mind. For the briefest of moments, all the chattering ceased and it was only the two of them in the room. Aziraphale smiled back and took his seat on the top step, his shoulder brushing against Crowley’s as they waited for their turn to practice.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Crowley murmured under his breath, leaning in to press himself against Aziraphale for a moment. “You’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

Tears pricked the edges of Aziraphale’s eyes and he urged them away, turning away from Crowley as he peeked out around the edge of the wooden structure before them. In the corner of the room, he could just make out the shepherds and wise men huddling at the back of the chapel, waiting patiently for their cue to move into position.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Crowley was right. Second to the food, caroling at Christmastime was his favorite way to spend the season. And out of all the songs he could have been forced to sing, ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ was certainly an easy one to remember. He’d practically been singing it since the day he could walk.

This was all going to be fine. He’d go on and say his line, sing one little verse and then everyone would join him. He would only have to be alone for a little while.

Looking over at the boy seated beside him, Aziraphale felt the heat in his chest rising to his face once more. If he were being honest with himself, the boy wouldn’t be alone at all. Not for a second.

Crowley was up here with him, through it all.

* * *

Aziraphale was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Crowley was sure of it. The way the stage lights spilled over his pale skin, illuminating his blonde curls like a goddamn halo. He’d never seen anything like it before. At the beginning, Crowley may have claimed this whole pageant thing was rigged, but now there was no doubt in his mind.

There was no one else in this school, no one else on this entire planet that was more fitting for the angelic role. Aziraphale may have pulled his assignment out of a hat like the rest of them, but it had to have been fate that he ended up with that one piece of paper.

And when the music began to play and the blonde-haired boy opened his mouth to sing, Crowley could do nothing but stare in awe. Aziraphale’s voice was _breathtaking_. High and pure and nothing short of angelic. He found himself mesmerized by the sound, eyes unable to tear themselves away from the rounded face Crowley had grown so fond of over the past few months. 

Aziraphale’s eyes were closed, likely because he was too petrified to open them as he was singing. The look suited him, in Crowley’s opinion. His friend looked as though he was bathed in holy light, exuding peace and wonder and so much love. In that moment, Aziraphale looked exactly like all those pictures Crowley had grown up with at Christmastime - pictures of the angels in the field and hovering over the small but cozy stable. Aziraphale was, in every definition of the word, an angel.

When the music stopped and the shepherds began to recite their lines, drawing the audience’s attention over to them, Crowley leaned in almost imperceptibly and whispered softly into the air between them.

“Well done, angel. That was bloody brilliant.”

The bright, shining smile he received in return filled Crowley’s entire being with a feeling he didn’t understand. A feeling he wanted to feel over and over again. A feeling he never wanted to let go of. It was fierce and warm and exhilarating all at once, rushing through him like a rapidly flowing river as it crashed into every corner of himself. 

Realization dawned in Crowley’s mind, along with a sharp ache in his heart as he continued to gaze over at his only friend, the rest of the world forgotten. Crowley only wanted one thing, in that moment. Deep down in his heart, he knew - he wanted to see that smile each and every day, for the rest of his goddamn life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> Enjoy this holiday themed chapter to explore the first winter of our duo's friendship. Thank you all so much for your feedback so far. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to see so many of you excited about this story. Keep those comments coming :) I am greatly looking forward to seeing your thoughts on all the things I have in store for you.
> 
> Next chapter should be up sometime this weekend <3


	4. Part 1: Spring 1907

Crowley’s favorite days at Eton College were the ones where he didn’t have to go to class. Naturally, they were few and far between, so the boy learned to quickly make the most of them whenever one came around. So far, in his almost seven month experience at the all-boys boarding school, he’d come across two of them. 

The first had been the day of the Christmas Festival. In Crowley’s opinion, this hardly counted as a day off, not when they’d been forced to rehearse that stupid play for the entire day. No, a day off school should be one where Crowley was free to do whatever he liked with his time. Not sit in a church, completely bored out of his mind for hours on end.

Next had been the one and only snow day they had gotten that year. It didn’t snow nearly as much here as it had in southern Germany, or really any other place Crowley had lived over the past fifteen years. He had been lucky enough to get one day were the snow had piled up too high for them to walk safely back and forth between their dormitory and the academic building. Classes had been cancelled and Crowley had naturally taken full advantage of such a situation.

He started the day by sleeping until lunchtime. Every goddamn morning, he was forced to wake up with enough time to ready himself for a seven o’clock breakfast.  _ Seven  _ o’clock. For the entirety of the winter term, that was  _ before _ the sun even peeked its face over the horizon. How anyone could expect him to wake up that early day after day was impossible, but he did it anyway. Except on the days when he didn’t have to.

That day had been one of those days. Once he’d finally awoken, Crowley had thrown on his clothes as quickly as he could

They weren’t supposed to leave the dorms. That was the whole reason for cancelling classes, so no one would be forced to go out into the snow that was still falling, laying a thick blanket of white across the entire campus. But the boy was damned if he was going to miss out on spending this day without his best friend. So, coat wrapped firmly around his form, the red-haired boy had made the trek several buildings over and let himself into Aziraphale’s room with a flourish complete with a bright smile and a bag full of pastries he’d managed to snatch from the dorm kitchen before he’d left.

The day had been wonderful - filled with cozy fires, long conversations, and an abundance of snacks that they had joyfully consumed. Naturally, it had passed by in the blink of an eye. Before he knew it, Crowley was bidding Aziraphale a good night and trudging back through the snow to his own dorm building with a heavy heart, not looking forward to classes picking up again the next day.

Luckily for him, the third such day was finally upon them. Winter had clung to the greater London area far longer than it had any right to that year, but spring had finally broken through its iron grip. With the budding of new leaves and warmer air blowing in every day, it was time for Eton’s annual Spring Festival. A day with games and crafts and more food than even Aziraphale could eat in a day. A day where they could simply have fun and run around outdoors and enjoy the sunshine beating down on their skin.

The best part of it all was that they finally,  _ finally _ , had a day when they weren’t required to wear their blasted uniforms. Not that Crowley minded them all that much - he did look good in black, after all, but it was nice to be able to change things up a bit. Wear something that he was a bit more comfortable in.

“I still don’t understand it,” Crowley continued as he and Aziraphale walked side by side down the long cobblestone walkway that lead from the front door of the academic building all the way to the front gates of the campus. Each side of the path was lined with various booths where both students and members of the outside community had set up a place to spend the day. There were booths with games to play, various jewelry and trinkets to purchase. And, of course, any type of food they could dream up. 

“You’re given one day - a day where you can wear whatever you like. A day where you  _ know _ that you’re going to be running around outside in the sun for hours on end. And you dress in a suit.”

He smiled quietly to himself as a light shade of pink dusted Aziraphale’s cheeks. A sudden desire to stop their walking and turn toward the boy, to place his palm against that soft looking skin, filled Crowley’s mind. Would it feel as soft as it looked? Would it be warm against his fingertips? Would Aziraphale pull away? Or, dare he hope, lean into his touch?

“I like this suit,” Aziraphale protested, his bottom lip sticking out ever so slightly as he glanced up at Crowley. The boy met his bright blue gaze for a moment, feeling heat begin to stir in his stomach, and forced himself to look away. Crowley’s gaze fell, instead, upon the line of booths, frantically looking for something he could use to distract them both. “It’s stylish.”

A laugh escaped Crowley’s lips as he once again turned back to his friend, unable to keep his attention diverted for long. “It’s tartan, angel,” the boy argued, eyes flicking down to take in the material once more. Most of the suit was nice enough. It was light brown in color, somehow causing Aziraphale’s eyes to appear even brighter than usual, and the boy had paired it with a crisp, white button down shirt. The only bit of tartan in the whole ensemble was tie currently wrapped around his neck. Which, in all honesty, looked quite fetching on him. Not that Crowley would ever admit to that fact.

“Tartan is stylish,” Aziraphale argued, reaching a hand up to straighten the garment. Crowley simply rolled his eyes and looked around again, hoping to find something that might entertain them both. The day was only just beginning and Crowley wanted to pack it full with fun for them both. Not just because they had the day off class and he was looking for something to do, but also because today was Aziraphale’s birthday.

“Oh!” the blonde boy exclaimed as his gaze fell upon the photographer’s stand at the exact same moment Crowley’s had. “A photographer! Crowley, dear, we should get our picture taken.”

Crowley’s face flushed as the term ‘dear’ reached his ears. The moment his heart began to flutter in his chest, he immediately shot it down. ‘Dear’ was an enderement Aziraphale used on a large number of people. The younger boys that he helped through their homework, ladies they passed on the streets when they went into London on the weekends, practically everyone he came across that he was brave enough to speak with received the name. It meant nothing special that such a term was also applied to Crowley.

Despite how much he wished that wasn’t the case.

“Aziraphale,” he started, reaching out to grab the boy’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. Aziraphale turned around to look up at Crowley, a questioning look in his eyes. “We can’t get a photograph yet. We look far too proper.”

The boy glanced down at his own attire, taking in the crisp black lines of his pants and shirt. He hadn’t even begun to roll his sleeves up yet. Taking a photograph now would be almost like lying. When they looked back at it in the years to come, they would see two properly dressed boys standing side by side on a lovely spring morning.

No, that was not acceptable at all.

His hand still wrapped around Aziraphale’s wrist, Crowley dragged him off toward the first booth that he saw - one that likely involved some sort of game. It could be nothing else, in Crowley’s opinion, based off of the series of stuffed animals hanging from the metal bar running across the top of the structure.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a keepsake of us that actually reminded you of how much fun we had today?” he asked while simultaneously fishing a coin from the depths of his pocket. Aziraphale opened his mouth, likely in an effort to protest Crowley spending his money on both of them, but the boy gave his friend a firm look. “You can get the next one,” he answered simply, turning to examine what task he’d just signed himself up for. 

Well, wasn’t this his lucky day? Trust Crowley to haphazardly pick the one game in this whole place he was guaranteed to win, even with one hand tied behind his back.

Darts was not the type of game that was overly complicated. For those with enough practice under their belts, it was simple enough to do extraordinarily well, compared to the average human being. And Crowley had months of practice at this particular skill.

The carnival game was simple. For one flat rate, Crowley got to throw a total of five darts. If he scored higher than the posted point total, he won a small prize, consisting of either a small balloon or a colorful fan that twirled whenever it was met with a large gust of wind.

Neither of these would do, of course. It had taken Aziraphale all of three seconds to hone in on the stuffed bear hanging in the corner of the booth. It was rather large, slightly taller than either one of their torsos, complete with flat cap and a red and black tartan scarf.

Of course his friend wanted that bear. In Crowley’s opinion, nothing else here was worthy of his time or talent. Aziraphale deserved the very best. He was going to win that bear or die trying, of that, the boy had no doubt.

“Now,” Crowley teased, already feeling the smile forming on his face. “You’d best be thinking about which of these prizes you want, Aziraphale, because I’m about to set a new record.”

Next to him, Aziraphale laughed and Crowley felt his heart soar. Without hesitation, he turned back to the task at hand, one of the darts already resting gently between his fingertips. In order to win Aziraphale his prize, Crowley needed to first beat the score currently posted on the small chalkboard next to the target. That should be easy enough. When he and his family had lived back in France, he’d spent a lot of time with one of the neighborhood boys. A boy that just happened to have a dart board hanging on the wall of his bedroom. Over the course of his six months there, Crowley had gotten quite good. He would have no trouble getting to the next round.

The challenge came once he chose to reject the smaller prize. Crowley would then be given more darts that he would use to get as many bullseye shots in a row as he could. The current record tally was five. So long as he broke that number, the boy would walk away with his prize.

In the end, he got ten in a row before deciding enough was enough. Crowley’s prowess was starting to draw a crowd and he didn’t want to deal with all these strangers. Today was supposed to be about him and Aziraphale. He didn’t want anyone else interfering.

“We’ll take the tartan bear,” Crowley requested after he purposefully under threw the next dart, watching with satisfaction as it stuck into the wooden post below the dart board with a resounding ‘thud’. Aziraphale beamed at him as the game attendant unhooked the prize and handed it to Crowley with a respectful nod. The red-headed boy stepped quickly away from the booth, allowing the crowd to take over and try their hand at beating his record, handing the object to Aziraphale as he tried to keep the blush from rising up to his cheeks once more.

“You were marvelous, my dear,” Aziraphale gushed as they left the dart booth and continued to make their way down the aisle of festival-themed activities, looking for the next thing to occupy their time. “How did you ever learn to throw like that?”

Crowley shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Secretly, he was thrilled that Aziraphale was so impressed by his skill. The boy’s praise filled him up with a joy unlike any he had ever known. He found himself actively searching for another game he might be good at, wanting to hear more words of praise from his friend’s lips.

They tried several things throughout the course of the day, a mixture of both games and food. At Aziraphale’s insistence, the boys had even stopped to do a bit of shopping at a bookstand before Crowley grew bored and dragged his friend off to play more games.

Finally, with several victories on their belts, a giant stuffed bear in hand, and bellies full with funnel cake and fruit tarts and all manners of sweets, the boys returned to the photography booth. They stood side by side, jackets thrown to the ground, sleeves rolled up to their elbows, as the man positioned them in front of the backdrop. It was a cheesy image, depicting a hand-painted circus tent, ferris wheel, and balloon stand. Bright colors that Crowley knew from experience wouldn’t even show up in the image, other than adding different tones of sepia to the final product.

“Right,” the photographer gruffed as he returned to the front of the room. Crowley shifted a few centimeters closer to Aziraphale while the man’s back was turned, slipping his arm around his friend’s so Crowley’s hand was resting on the crook of the boy’s elbow. The contact was obscured by the giant stuffed bear still pressed up against Aziraphale’s chest and the soft smile that the blonde sent his way encouraged Crowley to keep himself positioned just like that until they were allowed to move again.

At the photographer’s command, both boys smiled, beaming from ear to ear. The man ducked his head beneath the curtain, disappearing momentarily from view. A bright light flashed, sending stars shooting across Crowley’s vision as he reluctantly slipped his arm out from underneath Aziraphale’s and stepped away. The boy blinked furiously, trying to clear his line of sight as his companion practically skipped over to the older man to retrieve their keepsake, bear dragging along beside him, swinging wildly back and forth.

“I think this turned out rather well,” Aziraphale praised as they made their way down the main collection of booths one more time. He held the photograph in hand, tilting it back and forth as if that would give him a better look at it. The object was much smaller than Crowley had expected it to be, no larger than the palm of his hand, but he had to admit, Aziraphale was right.

The photo had turned out spectacularly. It was a pity they had only gotten one. Crowley would have liked to have a keepsake of his own. This day was rapidly turning into one of the very best days of his life.

“Where to next?” the blonde boy asked excitedly, his blue eyes dancing across the courtyard.

Another flutter of his heart caused Crowley to pause. He did have one more thing up his sleeve for today. It was mid-afternoon now. They still had a few hours of freedom before they would be expected to return to their houses for dinner. Now was as good a time as any, he supposed, to finally give Aziraphale his gift.

“Come on,” Crowley beckoned, giving his friend a quick wave before he led them away from the festivities and across one of the nearby fields toward several rows of tall trees at the edge of campus. 

Aziraphale laughed, filling Crowley’s chest with a familiar but inexplicable warmth. He couldn’t help the smile that graced his face in that moment as he turned toward the boy that had become his closest friend. “Where are you taking me?” he teased, a glimmer of light in his sky-blue eyes. Gods, Crowley could spend an eternity looking into those eyes.

He raised his eyebrows and flashed Aziraphale an excited grin. “Why, Aziraphale, don’t you trust me?” he asked, the teasing hint in his voice obvious to both of them.

Another laugh, another wave of warmth setting fire to Crowley’s entire body. “Of course I do, my dear.”

He said it so softly, so surely, with such intensity in his eyes, that Crowley slowly felt himself becoming undone. If they had been alone in that moment, just the two of them with no one else in the world to see, Crowley might have been brave enough to step forward and place a kiss on those rosy lips.

It was wrong, the way he felt. Crowley knew such things weren’t allowed, not here in this country, anyway. He knew if he were ever to take such an action, he would lose Aziraphale forever. And that was a loss he wasn’t willing to inflict upon himself. His fragile heart wouldn’t be able to bear it. 

Crowley wasn’t sure when those feelings had started. At this point, they’d been hiding within him for so long, he couldn’t remember ever  _ not _ feeling this way about his best friend. Perhaps it was the moment he’d first seen that blue gaze in the cafeteria all those months ago. Or the first time he had heard the blonde-haired boy laugh. Perhaps it had been much later, when he realized that despite being forced to wake up before the sun, Crowley was looking forward to the day filled with lessons because he could spend that day with Aziraphale.

He suspected it had been the moment a blue-eyed angel had miraculously appeared beside him, black umbrella in hand, and offered him shelter in this new and strange world he’d found himself in. 

Whatever the reason, whenever it had started, Crowley reminded himself that it didn’t matter. Aziraphale was his best friend, and nothing more. He wouldn’t ruin this for some stupid boyhood crush. Not when Aziraphale would never return his affections. Not in the way Crowley so desperately wished he would. 

“Then let me take the lead, angel,” Crowley whispered back with the same intensity, heart pounding in his chest, amber gaze never leaving Aziraphale’s face. “Let me show you the way.”

* * *

“Crowley,” Aziraphale laughed as he followed in step behind his friend through the woods on the outer edges of the school. “Just where  _ are  _ you taking me?”

The boy turned around, still marching forward at a steady pace, and flashed Aziraphale a wide grin, causing the blonde-haired boy’s heart to thud sharply against his chest. “If I told you, angel, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

There was that name again. Crowley had taken to using it often, whenever they found themselves alone. Ever since they’d participated in the Nativity several months back, Aziraphale had been trying to figure out what Crowley meant by it. Was it some sort of endearment? An inside joke between friends? After several months, the boy had concluded he had no way to know what the name meant. He had no way to know what Crowley meant a lot of the time.

He hoped it was something more, despite how that thought terrified him. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t. Aziraphale counted himself beyond lucky that Crowley even saw it worth his time to talk to him, let alone be his friend. Who was he to hope for anything more?

“But why do you want it to be a surprise?” the blonde-haired boy asked, stumbling slightly as his foot caught on the root of a nearby tree. Crowley instantly whirled around, long arms reaching forward to catch him. Aziraphale fell into him, feeling his fingers wrapping reflexively around his friend’s surprisingly strong forearms. A tingle of energy shot up his fingertips at the warm contact of skin against skin. Blue eyes glancing up, Aziraphale saw Crowley flash him a gentle smile as the boy righted himself once more, hands falling away as he reached down to the bottom of his vest, tugging it back into place.

“Because,” Crowley responded, as if nothing had happened. As if the air around them hadn’t warmed significantly with the energy that was still thrumming wildly between them. Aziraphael was astonished he hadn’t turned into an actual tomato after such an event. Or simply caught fire. His face certainly felt hot enough to do so. “Surprises are fun. Don’t you like them?”

Aziraphale paused, his earlier embarrassment momentarily forgotten. Did he? He thought back. “I don’t know.”

The other boy paused, a flicker of some unknown emotion dancing across his beautiful amber gaze. “You don’t know?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I can’t think of a time when I’ve ever experienced one.”

In that moment, the widest grin spread across Crowley’s face. Without warning, he reached forward, grabbing onto Aziraphale’s hand as he tugged the boy forward, his enthusiasm filling the air around them.

Without another word, Crowley led him the rest of the way, Aziraphale’s heart thrumming against his chest with every step that they took. He kept his eyes fixed mostly on the ground, to avoid any further embarrassing missteps, but flicked his gaze up occasionally to look at how their hands slotted together, skin to skin. The warmth humming through his body was unlike anything Aziraphale had ever felt before.

They emerged from the forest and Crowley pulled them to an abrupt stop. His gaze still focused on their clasped hands, Aziraphale didn’t bother to look up until he heard a soft cough from Crowley’s direction. Only then did he tear his eyes away and look up to discover just what this surprise was all about.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed as he took in the scene before them. “Oh, Crowley, this is  _ wonderful _ .”

Truer words had never been spoken. His friend had taken him by the hand and led him to a secluded bank by the Thames. But it wasn’t just a gorgeous location Crowley had brought him to. There in front of them was a large sky blue blanket held down on each corner by properly sized stones, a thatched picnic basket resting directly in the center.

“Happy Birthday, angel,” Crowley murmured softly as he released Aziraphale’s hand and stepped forward. The disappointment in Aziraphale’s heart at the loss of contact was rapidly eclipsed by a rush of warmth through his entire body as the red-haired boy before him slipped off his shoes and practically fell onto the blanket, patting the spot next to him in invitation.

Aziraphale lost no time in joining Crowley, settling onto the blanket with a gentle sigh as he watched his friend begin to unpack the basket in anticipation. His eyes widened further as, one by one, containers of his favorite foods were brought into the light, set out between them so they could both partake of this marvelous feast.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale found himself breathing again as he took in all the food before him. Crowley had packed them a truly scrumptious picnic. There were chocolate drizzled croissants, slices of ham and cheese, glass bottles of lemonade, and a whole container of - 

“Pears!” the boy cried with delight, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around Crowley’s waist. Instead, he pried open the glass jar with a single flick of his wrist and offered the first sample to his friend. “You have truly outdone yourself, my dear.”

A dusting of pink appeared on Crowley’s fair skin and Aziraphale paused, wondering if he had done something wrong. 

“Well, they are your favorite,” the red-haired boy pointed out as he reached for one, bringing it up to his lips. Aziraphale watched with a strange feeling coiling in his stomach as Crowley took a bite of the fruit, juice spilling out onto his chin. 

Without a word, Aziraphale reached over and handed him a napkin, which Crowley took gratefully from his hands, their fingers brushing against each other for a fraction of a moment that Aziraphale found himself wishing could last an eternity.

“I have something else for you,” Crowley whispered once he had cleaned himself up His voice was quiet, almost as if he were afraid of being overheard. He glanced away from Aziraphale’s face and the boy found himself wishing with all of his might to see those gorgeous amber eyes again. “If you’d like it, that is.”

An inexplicable surge of courage entered Aziraphale’s heart and he leaned forward to rest his hand on Crowley’s, offering up a tentative smile as his friend suddenly looked back up at him with wide eyes. Aziraphale’s stomach sank and he hastily brought his hand back to his chest. What had he been thinking? Of course such an act would make Crowley feel uncomfortable. He should have been more considerate of his friend’s personal space. Aziraphale vowed to do better in the future.

“You’ve already given me so much today, Crowley,” he pointed out, pulling the stuffed bear onto his lap as if to prove a point. “How could I ever ask for anything else?”

“Yeah,” the lanky boy argued, leaning back on both of his hands as he turned to look out over the water before them. The sun was still hanging in the sky, slowly making its way back to the horizon. There were a few clouds scattered about above them, taking on a purplish hue as evening started to creep in. “But it hardly counts as a birthday gift, does it? I mean,” he paused, taking in a deep breath. Aziraphale turned to look out over the water too, smiling as the breeze blew in, causing ripples to dance across the surface. The reflection of the trees around them distorted for a moment, morphing into a collection of green and purple swirls as the line between earth and sky blurred before them.

He shifted his weight on the blanket, placing his hand a few centimeters closer to where Crowley’s was currently positioned. Heart racing inside his chest, the boy turned his attention back toward his friend as he spoke.

“The bear was a carnival gift, not one for your birthday. And this picnic is fine - ”

“It’s more than just fine,” Aziraphale argued, once again shifting his hand the tiniest bit closer. He didn’t know what he was trying to do, in all honesty. What Aziraphale wanted more than any picnic or prized bear, or even more than whatever gift Crowley had up his sleeve at the moment, was to feel Crowley’s hand in his one more time, if only for a little while.

He couldn’t take the hand on his own, though. Aziraphale was far too frightened. He didn’t always understand the feelings that were coursing around inside of his heart, but the boy suspected that emotions such as these were ones that should stay buried in the deepest recesses of himself. These were the sorts of feelings that priests warned against and mothers despaired over. These were the sorts of feelings that got men thrown in jail for years on end.

Aziraphale should stop. He should pull away, fold his hands neatly in his lap, or use them to grab one of the delicious pears Crowley had painstakingly retrieved for him, but he didn’t. Nor did Crowley shift his hand to take Aziraphale’s in his own.

Instead, his friend reached up into his pants pocket and pulled out a small gold chain. Aziraphale’s breath hitched in his chest as, link by link, the object was tugged into the light. “I wanted to get you something special,” Crowley finally admitted as the watch came into view. It was bright gold, freshly polished, with gentle ridges along the circumference. And there, on the front, were a pair of intricately formed wings.

“I thought of you,” the boy explained as he handed it over to Aziraphale. The metal was warm against his hand, the weight of it gentle and firm. Aziraphale could even feel the soft vibrations of the second hand ticking by, reminding them both that this day, like all days, would eventually come to an end. “When I saw it, that is. You know, since I call you angel.”

“It suits you,” Crowley tried again when Aziraphale was unable to find his voice for several moments. His throat was too thick with emotion to reply. With misty eyes, the boy looked up and tried his best to smile, clutching the watch tightly up against his heart, plush bear entirely forgotten.

“ _ Thank you _ , Crowley,” Aziraphale finally breathed, a single tear escaping its hold. The boy quickly reached up a hand to brush it away, the pocket watch clutched carefully within his other hand. “I’ve never received a more precious gift in all my life.”

Again, the red-haired boy settled into the blanket beneath them, grumbling lightly under his breath. “Yes, fine. Tell the whole world, why don’t you?”

Aziraphale laughed and tucked the piece gently into his vest pocket, smiling softly to himself as he realized he could still feel the soft ticking against his heart. He would cherish this gift forever, just as he cherished the boy who had so selflessly given it to him.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, not quite daring to move his hand any closer to Crowley’s. Their fingertips were mere centimeters apart by now, and the boy had no way to know whether that was entirely his doing, or if Crowley had shifted closer after he’d handed over the watch. “This has been my most favorite surprise. The best one of my entire life, I’d daresay.”

This brought a smile to the boy’s lips. He turned to face Aziraphale and the blonde felt his heart stuttering once more inside his chest as he took in the face of his most favorite person in the entire world.

“I’m glad, angel,” he breathed in the space between them as the sun lowered itself to just the right angle for its light to set Crowley’s hair on fire. The sight of it took Aziraphale’s breath away, and just for a moment, he thought he might be brave enough to lean in and brush his lips against Crowley’s, to see if they tasted just as sweet as they looked.

“Now,” Crowley announced a second later, breaking the spell between them, “pass those pears, why don’t you? I’m starving.”

Aziraphale laughed and did as his friend asked, unable to keep the bright smile from his face for even a second. 

This had been, by far, the very best day of his life. And he couldn’t wait to see what joys tomorrow might bring for them both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone, the final piece of Part 1 is coming up next. What wonders will the summer months hold for Crowley and Aziraphale once school lets out for the season? Stay tuned to find out!
> 
> Thank you all so so much for your wonderful encouragement. I adore reading all of your comments and it makes my heart so happy you are enjoying this story. I promise to work really hard to make this everything you want it to be!
> 
> I did have a quick question for you guys. How are you liking seeing this story from both of their perspectives? I was planning on the next part being entirely Aziraphale, but I could work some of it to be told from Crowley's POV if that was something you all were interested in seeing. Let me know if you have an opinion one way or the other and I'll see what I can do :)
> 
> I will see you all sometime next week with the next update! Until then, I hope you all have a wonderful weekend <3


	5. Part 1: Summer 1907

Aziraphale woke to a soft tapping sound on his window. At first, he was sure it was some kind of bird or other critter that had landed on the brick windowsill on the other side of the glass panes. Perhaps a squirrel, or maybe even some other kind of rodent that had managed to climb up the drain pipe or across the electrical wires that ran over the street below.

Rolling over, the boy shut his eyes and tried to ignore the noise. It was such a strange thing, almost methodical in its spacing, tapping over and over at the same window with precisely four seconds in between each noise.

That didn’t make any sense. Aziraphale sat up. Birds and squirrels and rats didn’t know how to tell time. There was no way they could be so steady in their noisemaking. He rose to his feet and hurried across to the window, throwing it open to see just what in the world was going on.

To his delight, Aziraphale spotted Crowley two stories down, standing beneath his bedroom window dressed in black slacks and a soft green shirt, an entire handful of small pebbles at his disposal.

“But soft,” the boy below him whispered, his wild curls fluttering around his shoulders as a breeze blew in through the area. “What light through yonder window breaks?”

Aziraphale laughed, knowing very well that Crowley would be unable to recite any more of the line. He was not the biggest fan of Shakespeare, Aziraphale had come to find, although the boy was amenable to sitting through some of the ‘funnier’ ones, as he liked to call them.

“Crowley?” the blonde whispered, aware that his parents were asleep just across the hall. “What are you doing here? It’s nearly two in the morning.”

This revelation just caused the boy to shoot Aziraphale a wide grin that made his heart flutter wildly in his chest, desperate to escape and join itself with Crowley’s.

“Care to go on an adventure with me?” his friend asked, offering up no further information. Aziraphale watched as he dropped the rocks at his feet and fell to one knee, hands clasped together as if sending up a prayer. He laughed, softly still, then chanced a glance over his shoulder at the closed door across the room.

“I can’t, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered back, leaning forward slightly out of the window to get a better look. A soft breeze tickled the baby hairs on his cheeks, the wild curls atop his own head waving around like wildfire. “My parents will hear me if I try and sneak down the hall.” He wanted more than anything to sneak out of the house and spend the entire night with his best friend, but Aziraphale’s parents were strict about that sort of thing. He would get into a lot of trouble if either one of them woke up to find him creeping down the stairs to meet up with one of his classmates from school in the middle of the night.

Crowley stood up and brushed off his knees. “Just climb down the storm drain.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, flicking over to the metal pole that stood bolted to the brick wall to his right. There was no way he would be able to climb down that way. “I’ll break it, for sure,” he protested, looking back to Crowley, a part of him hoping the clever boy would come up with another way for him to get down.

He simply shook his head, red curls flying all over the place. “No you won’t. It’s sturdy enough. I promise.”

A beat of silence passed between them as Aziraphale glanced back at the metal object. “What if I fall?” he asked, heart thrumming in his chest at the thought. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering doing such a reckless thing, but the opportunity to spend an entire night with Crowley was too tempting to pass up.

The boy smiled warmly, holding out his arms in an invitation. “I’ll catch you.”

Well, that settled things, then. “Alright,” he sighed, a soft smile settling onto his face, “you wiley serpent. Consider your temptation accomplished. I’ll be right down.” Aziraphale retreated from the window for a moment, quickly changing into clothes a bit more appropriate than the tartan pajamas he was currently sporting. This time, he didn’t go for a full on suit, like he had back at Eton’s spring festival. If he was going to be climbing down a bloody storm drain, he needed to be flexible and comfortable in his attire. Instead, Aziraphale chose a simple pair of tan pants and a light blue button up. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and returned to the window, a determined look crossing over onto his face.

“Right,” the blonde boy said with more confidence than he had the right to feel in that moment. He swung a leg over the windowsill and out onto the ledge below, shifting his foot to the side so he could place the other one beside it. “Here I come.”

As it turned out, climbing down was not as difficult as Aziraphale had originally thought. The drain pipe was sturdy, just as Crowley had claimed, and gravity did most of the work for him. All Aziraphale had to do was hold on tightly and lower himself down bit by bit. 

“That’s it,” Crowley’s voice murmured surprisingly close as Aziraphale approached the ground “I’ve got you.” He felt a pair of strong hands on his waist, steadying him as the boy’s feet slid the rest of the way, touching safely down on the ground. Once he was firmly in one place, Aziraphale turned to face his friend, heartbeat increasing when he noticed just how close they were standing, Crowley’s hands still firmly situated on his waist, as if he still needed something to stabilize him.

Gazing up into those gorgeous amber eyes, Aziraphale thought perhaps he might after all.

Without another word, Crowley stepped away and waved at him to follow. Aziraphale was reminded of a warm spring afternoon, trekking through the woods at his friend’s behest. If tonight was going to be anything like that wonderful surprise, Aziraphale would follow Crowley anywhere, even to the ends of the earth.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, heart hammering in his chest as he followed the red-haired boy darting around one streetlamp after another as they made their way down the deserted street. “Crowley, where are we going?”

Crowley turned toward him and flashed a wide grin, causing Aziraphale’s face to fill with an intense heat. Luckily, in the darkness, his blush would be hidden. “Come on, Aziraphale,” the boy teased, hands finding their way into the pockets of his dark colored pants. “I thought you trusted me.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. He didn't have to. Of course he trusted Crowley. Aziraphale trusted Crowley with his life. He would follow the boy anywhere. To the deepest depths of the ocean or up into the vastness of the starry sky that hovered above them.

Eventually, after several twists and turns, Aziraphale figured out where their final destination was. He smiled as they arrived, looking both ways before they crossed the street, even though there were no cars about at this time of night. St. James Park had always been one of his favorite places to go with his family when he’d been younger. They used to take Sunday walks down to the water’s edge after church and throw seed to the ducks for hours on end, enjoying the weather to its fullest whenever a pleasant day rolled around.

Now, under the light of the half moon, Crowley led him along those same walking paths he used to trod until they came upon a grove of trees that was rather secluded from any of the nearby streets. There, the boy in front of him veered off the pathway and went to sit town in the middle of them, leaning his head back to gaze up at the stars above them, exposing his long neck to the moonlight that drifted down from above.

Aziraphale felt his body tense at the image of Crowley sitting there, leaning back on both hands, eyes turned heavenward, with one knee brought up to his chest, the other leg outstretched. His vibrant hair was tousled by the breeze once more and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to kneel beside the boy and brush his fingers across that lovely, pale cheek, feeling the strands of Crowley’s hair as he tucked the stray curls back where they belonged.

“Come join me,” Crowley murmured softly, patting the grass beside him. “The stars are beautiful tonight. I was hoping you would want to watch them with me for a while.”

Trying not to faint, the blonde-haired boy did as he was asked, moving to take a seat beside Crowley. He, too, turned his head toward the night sky. Crowley was right, of course, they  _ were  _ beautiful.

“I’d love to visit them sometime,” Aziraphale murmured as both boys settled down on their backs to gaze up at the heavens above. “The stars. They just look so beautiful from down here.”

Crowley chuckled softly. Although he could not see the expression on the boy’s face, Aziraphale imagined his friend was smiling. “Maybe someday, I’ll take you to them.”

Aziraphae turned his head, keeping his body flat on the ground. “How?” he asked, curious to hear what his friend’s answer might be. Everyone knew that travelling to the stars was just a fairytale and nothing more. Such a feat was impossible.

The boy shrugged as best he could from down on the ground “Dunno,” he admitted, softly. “But if you really wanted to go, I’d find a way. Maybe I’d get a ship that could fly through space. Or one of those nifty new airplanes.”

A chuckle escaped Aziraphale’s mouth. “Those planes can barely stay in the air for more than thirty minutes. How are you going to use one to fly all the way to the stars?”

Crowley just grinned at him, folding his hands gently over his stomach. “Technology progresses more and more everyday, angel. Maybe in a few years we’ll be able to travel to the moon.”

Aziraphale simply laughed. His friend certainly did come up with some of the most ridiculous ideas sometimes.

Beside him, the boy’s only response was to smile back. “Have some faith,” he chided playfully, reaching over a hand to jostle Aziraphale gently. “I’ll take you to the stars. Someday. You’ll see.”

Instead of responding, Aziraphale smiled, settling back into his spot in their little grove, his blue eyes gazing up at the brilliant stars above them. He knew that, logically, they were still in London, but there was something about lying down in the cool grass with the silhouettes of trees surrounding the edge of his vision that made the boy think the stars were shining just a little bit brighter tonight. Maybe it was the location and how it reminded him of the English countryside. Maybe it was the way the fireflies danced above their heads, twinkling like little stars of their own as they flitted about the treetops. Or maybe it was just the company.

“I could stay here with you for eternity,” Aziraphale breathed into the comfortable night air. His hand shifted beside him, fingers running through the individual blades of grass by his side. For a moment, the boy imagined those blades of grass were tendrils of fiery red hair - hair that he’d been longing to touch for some time now. These cool, green substitutes were far too short to even come close to the luxurious locks of the boy sitting beside him, but Aziraphale let his mind believe it anyway.

There was something about tonight, lying side by side in the deserted park, with fireflies abounding and the stars hovering overhead. Aziraphale felt like he was in some kind of dream. One that he never wanted to wake up from.

A soft snort sounded to his left and Aziraphale turned his head to one side. Crowley was still beside him, amber eyes gazing upward at the heavens. The moonlight spilled into the park, bouncing off his pale skin, illuminating it like the purest white marble. Aziraphale felt his mouth suddenly go dry as he gazed over at his friend, an intense warmth coiling in his stomach as his heart took off at a sprinter’s pace.

“You’d get bored of me, eventually, angel,” Crowley asserted, keeping his eyes fixed on the skies above.

“I wouldn’t,” Aziraphale insisted, shifting so both his hands were now tucked up underneath his ear, a familiar position that caused him to think of his large, comfortable bed back home. “I could never get tired of you, Crowley. You’re my best friend.”

This statement pulled a soft smile onto the boy’s face. He still wasn’t turning to look back at Aziraphale, but the blonde-haired boy could tell Crowley was still engaged in the conversation. “Do you know what eternity is?” he asked eventually, bringing both hands up to rest behind his head, his elbow hovering right in front of Aziraphale’s forehead.

“What?” the boy asked dumbly, his focus currently being occupied as Aziraphale observed the multitude of tiny freckles along that elbow he’d never noticed until tonight.

“Do you know what eternity is?” Crowley asked again. Aziraphale, not knowing where to begin answering that question, remained silent, sure that his friend would explain if given the chance.

After a moment, he did. “There’s this big mountain, you see. A mile high, all the way at the end of the universe. And once every  _ thousand _ years, there’s this little bird - ”

“What little bird?” Aziraphale asked, cutting him off. Where was Crowley going with this?

“This little bird I’m talking about,” the boy responded, as if that did anything to clarify the confusion that had just entered Aziraphale’s mind. “And every thousand years - ”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “The same bird? Every thousand years?”

Finally, Crowley turned to face him. Both boys were now lying on their sides, hands tucked under their ears, eyes locked on each others’. Crowley offered up a hesitant smile. “Yeah,” he answered, a bit unsure of himself. 

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. He hadn’t meant to make fun of Crowley’s story. Sure, it was a little bit ridiculous, but he was trying to make a point, wasn’t he? Aziraphale should be considerate and let him.

He smiled back. “Bloody ancient bird, then.”

This caused Crowley’s eyes to crinkle in delight as his hesitant smile widened into almost a full-on grin. “Right. As I was saying, every thousand years, this bird flies - ”

“Limps,” the blonde boy interjected, earning him a playful glare from his companion. Crowley’s story had turned into a bit of a game between the pair, and Aziraphale’s heart soared with each reaction to a comment he made. He paid special attention to Crowley’s eyes, looking for any indication that the boy was becoming frustrated with him, but for now, there was only joy and a deep set affection shining back in his direction. 

“ _ Flies _ ,” Crowley insisted, continuing on with what he’d been trying to say. “Every thousand years this bird flies to the mountain and sharpens its beak.”

“Hang on,” Aziraphale announced, propping himself up on one arm. “You can’t do that. Between here and the end of the universe, there’s loads of…” he paused, trying to come up with the right word. What did one use to describe such things? There were planets and meteors and all sorts of stars and other things floating out there in the black expanse of space. “Loads of, buggerall, dear boy.”

Crowley simply raised his eyebrows, a smirk creeping onto his face at Aziraphale’s latest addition to their conversation. The boy felt his cheeks turning red, but he held his friend’s gaze, willing him to continue. 

“But it gets there, anyway.”

“How?” Aziraphale found himself asking. He supposed, it really didn’t matter, but he was enjoying himself immensely with this hypothetical Crowley had invented. He wanted to see how far he could push the boy with it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley pointed out, as if he could hear Aziraphale’s own thoughts. A hint of exasperation had slipped into the boy’s voice and Aziraphale decided perhaps he should offer up something they could work with.

“It could use a spaceship,” the boy suggested, thinking back to a book he’d read a year or two ago. He couldn’t remember the author, or even the title, really, but in it a group of individuals attempted to send three people to the moon in a bullet shaped projectile of sorts. A ship, that traveled through space. What would people think of next?

Likely deciding that the method of transportation for this bird was of little consequence to him, Crowley continued on. “Yeah,” he agreed, “if you like.”

“But - ” Aziraphale interrupted, a thought just entering his mind. “It is the  _ end _ of the universe we are talking about.” An awfully long way to go for a single bird to travel. Even if it was in a spaceship. “Perhaps the bird could bring its children on the journey. And  _ their _ children. Or their children’s children. Or maybe some descendents way down the family tree would get out at the other end. And they’d - “

Aziraphale stopped, looking down at Crowley once more. He had been so absorbed with figuring out how the bird was going to reach the end of the universe, he had forgotten what it was supposed to do once it got there.

“What have they got to do?”

Crowley laughed and Aziraphale’s heart soared. He smiled, despite the blush rising once again to his cheeks. 

“The bird has got to sharpen its beak on the mountain.” Crowley paused, his eyes boring into Aziraphale’s. Not for the first time, Aziraphale thought about what it might feel like to lean forward, closing the distance between them as he placed a soft kiss against Crowley’s thin lips. “And then it flies back - ”

“On the spaceship?” Aziraphale asked, a grin of his own appearing on his face. Crowley simply rolled his eyes and a wave of warmth spread out through Aziraphale’s entire body. He really could spend eternity here with Crowley and be entirely content. There wasn’t anywhere else in the entire universe he’d rather be.

“And then, after a thousand years, it goes and does it all again,” Crowley finished in a hurry, knowing that Aziraphale was prepped to interject himself into the conversation wherever he saw fit. 

Silence fell over the two boys and Aziraphale found himself gazing at Crowley’s face once more. His entire body screamed at him to shift closer. To reach out a hand and tangle it deeply into Crowley’s long hair. To pull him closer and brush a kiss against his lips as he pressed their bodies together.

Instead, he leaned back, tearing his gaze away to look back up at the stars. “Seems a lot of effort just to sharpen a beak,” he pointed out, trying to remember just how they’d got onto the topic of birds and spaceships anyways. 

Crowley sighed. “Look, the point is, that when the bird has worn the mountain down to nothing, right, then - ”

Aziraphale opened his mouth again, response hovering on the edge of his lips. Wear the mountain down to nothing? Preposterous. Even if all the time in the universe existed to accomplish such a task, there was no way a single bird could wear a mountain down to nothing. Why, a bird’s beak, even the toughest one, was nowhere near hard enough to break down the rough stones of a mountain.

“Then you  _ still _ would be sitting here in this park,” Crowley breathed before Aziraphale could get a word in edgewise. “And you’d have been here the whole goddamn time with nothing but my company to entertain you.”

A soft smile appeared on Aziraphale’s face as he bravely shifted a bit closer to Crowley, lowering his left hand by his side. “Sounds like heaven to me.”

In that moment, Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s reaction to his sentiments. He simply listened with straining ears as the boy settled down beside him so they were both lying flat-backed on the grass, staring up at the stars once more. 

Something brushed up against his hand and it took all of Aziraphale’s willpower not to move it away. He desperately wanted to glance down, to see if it was, in fact, Crowley’s fingers lightly dancing across his own, but Aziraphale couldn’t do it. Fear pulsed through him, paralyzing him as his mind began to race. What if he took Crowley’s hand and the boy pulled away? What if his parents found out? What if he ruined a perfectly good friendship? Aziraphale had never had a friendship like this one. Crowley was his favorite person in the whole entire world. He would do  _ anything _ to keep the boy in his life as long as possible.

Once again, the stars began to twinkle above him, shining right alongside the fireflies in the treetops. Once again, Aziraphale felt himself being pulled under the spell of this night, his fears slowly ebbing until they had left him completely. He felt the brush against his pinky finger once more, unmistakably the touch of another human hand this time, and with a surge of courage he had no right to possess, Aziraphale shifted his hand so it sat palm to palm against Crowley’s.

The boy’s action was immediate. Fingers slipped in between his own, weaving their hands together in a tight embrace. Aziraphale felt a gentle pressure as Crowley held on a bit tighter, the air around them buzzing with invisible energy. 

“Aziraphale…” Crowley breathed into the space between them, the use of his name sending shivers of apprehension throughout Aziraphale’s body. Had he done something wrong? He  _ had _ done something wrong. Why else would Crowley have taken on that tone? 

Aziraphale tried to pull his hand away as gently as possible, his mind already coming up with half a dozen excuses to explain away his actions, when he was met with a great deal of resistance. Crowley’s hand tightened on Aziraphale’s, preventing the boy from pulling away, as once again, he began to speak.

“Aziraphale, there’s something I need to tell you,” Crowley whispered into the night. “And I - ” he broke off, the emotion in his voice taking over for a moment. “It might change things between us and -”

Again, he broke off and Aziraphale finally turned to face his friend. Crowley was scared. He may not be able to say those words out loud, but he didn’t need to. Aziraphale could hear it in his voice, feel it in the tremble of his hand held tightly against Aziraphale’s. Crowley was afraid to tell Aziraphale whatever was on his mind. 

Why? What would Crowley have to fear? He’d said things might change between the two of them. Was he afraid Aziraphale wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore? Impossible. Crowley had to know that there was nothing he could possibly say to ever make Aziraphale want to leave him.

“Crowley, dearest,” Aziraphale began, shifting his body closer as he brought their interwoven hands to rest between their chests. “It’s alright. There is nothing you could say to me that would make me love you any less.”

Crowley’s amber eyes widened under the moonlight and Aziraphale felt his blood run cold. Good lord, had he actually said that out loud? What in the heavens had he been thinking? Crowley was going to hate him now, he was sure of it. There had to be some way to play this off. To make things not as terrible as they had just become. He could tell Crowley he meant ‘love’ in a platonic way. Or that he meant to say he cared for Crowley, as all friends did of course. Yes, that would work. He hadn’t completely messed this up yet. Their friendship could be fixed. He didn’t have to lose Crowley over this disastrous mistake.

Before Aziraphale could open his mouth to even begin an explanation, he heard a soft sigh escape the red-haired boy’s lips. Blue eyes flickered up to the angular face across from him and to Aziraphale’s astonishment, he saw that it was drawing closer.

On their own accord, Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut. Exactly three heartbeats later, warm lips brushed against his own in the gentlest of caresses.

At that one touch, heat exploded in Aziraphale’s body, far more intense than anything he had ever felt before. He could feel his hands begin to tremble as he grabbed onto Crowley with all of his might - the boy’s hand his only anchor in that moment. His other hand rose to Crowley’s arm, clutching at the sleeve of his shirt as he drew the red-haired boy closer to him, wanting to close the distance between them forever.

Kissing Crowley was better than Aziraphale had ever dreamed it could be. He had admitted before that he could spend an eternity lying in St. James Park with his friend and he would be in heaven, but that had been a lie. This.  _ This _ was where he wanted to spend eternity. Here, in Crowley’s arms, with Crowley’s lips upon his own. 

All too soon, the boys pulled away from each other, faces flushed, chests heaving with the intensity of their shared emotions. There were tears glistening in Crowley’s amber eyes and for one heartstopping moment, Aziraphale thought he might have done something wrong again.

“I love you too, angel.”

Tears of his own appeared out of nowhere and Aziraphale scooted closer, closing the distance as he buried his head in Crowley’s chest. One long arm loped itself around him, rubbing gently across his back as the red-haired boy did his best to comfort Aziraphale.

“Angel?” Crowley voice asked tentatively as the blonde-haired boy nuzzled up against his chest. “Are you alright? Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed as he pulled back to look at Crowley’s beautiful face once more, a single tear escaping the corner of his eye. “I mean, no, Crowley. I’m fine. I’m just so happy.”

And he was. In this moment, Aziraphale was the happiest he’d ever been in his entire life. He didn’t care that, according to the law, the way he was feeling was wrong. He didn’t care that his parents likely wouldn’t approve. Aziraphale didn’t care about anything other than this boy laying right beside him. 

Aziraphale expected Crowley to return his sentiments. He expected his smile to be reflected upon Crowley’s face as his friend told him that he shared in that same happiness.

He did not. Instead, the soft smile on Crowley’s face fell and he began to pull away. Aziraphale stopped him, resting a hand against the pale cheek, forcing Crowley to look him in the eyes. There was a deep sadness there, one that should not exist. Not on this most wonderful of nights.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated as he took in a shuddering breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Aziraphale waited, hardly daring to breathe as he let his friend continue.

Finally, with one great rush of air, Crowley forced the statement out into the open. “I’m moving.”

Oh. Aziraphale paused. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Sure, he had enjoyed the fact that Crowley only lived a few blocks away from him and his family. During the school year, it wouldn’t matter at all where Crowley and his parents lived. And during break, while it may be a bit harder to see each other every day, depending on how far away the move took Crowley, they could still at least spend a few days together in their time away from Eton.

“Well,” the boy began, offering up a supportive smile. “That’s alright. It doesn’t much matter while we’re at school. And on breaks, I’m sure we can still find a way to see each other.”

“No, Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted, an uncharacteristic hardness in his amber eyes. “You don’t understand. I’m moving. Back to Germany.”

The air rushed from Aziraphale’s lungs as his entire body turned to ice. He must have heard that wrong. Crowley couldn’t be moving back to Germany. He’d only just gotten here. How long had it been since his family had moved to England? Ten months? Eleven? That was hardly enough time to get to know a place. They should be staying for much longer than a handful of months.

“When?” the boy found himself breathing, unsure how he’d managed to say anything with his heart currently lodged in his throat. Aziraphale felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff with nothing to hold on to. Waiting for the wind to blow by and topple him over into the abyss.

Crowley looked away. “Tomorrow.”

The breath he’d forgotten how to breathe suddenly rushed into Aziraphale’s lungs in a strangled sob. The boy sat up immediately, tucking his knees against his chest as he tried to cover the pain that was now radiating from his heart. It felt like someone had wedged a knife deep inside him, using it to slowly and painfully pry him apart from the seams. He felt like he was dying.

“Tomorrow?” Aziraphale heard himself crying, cursing himself for being so weak. “And you chose to wait to tell me now?” Why? Why was Crowley doing this? Why hadn’t he come to Aziraphale sooner? Why hadn’t Crowley told him when they’d first sat down? Why had he waited until they had only a few hours left with each other before he vanished from Aziraphale’s life forever?

“I didn’t want to tell you!” Crowley insisted, moving into a sitting position that mirrored Aziraphale’s. He reached out a hand to place it comfortingly on Aziraphale’s back, but the boy jumped away as if he’d been burned. “I didn’t want it to be real, I kept hoping my parents would change their minds, but they didn’t. I didn’t want to tell you earlier and ruin our summer together.”

Aziraphale turned toward his friend and glared at him through blurred eyes. “So you waited to tell me on your last night? Right after you  _ kiss  _ me? And tell me that you love me?”

He couldn’t see Crowley’s expression through his tears, but Aziraphale didn’t need to see the boy’s face to know how he was feeling. “You told me you loved me first!” Crowley shouted back. “I didn’t come here with the intention of kissing you tonight, Aziraphale. It just happened. All I wanted to do was tell you the truth. So you didn’t think I’d just disappeared on you. I care about you too much to do that to you.”

This was too much. Aziraphale couldn’t handle it anymore. He couldn’t sit here in Crowley’s presence knowing that this - this  _ fight _ , the first they’d ever had, would be his last memory of the boy who had stolen his heart. In a flurry, the boy was on his feet, sleeves rushing up to his eyes to dry the tears as he forced his feet to move. He had to get away from here, before he died of this deep ache inside his chest. Before his tears overtook him and he found himself drowning in them.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s panicked tone cut through the night. “Aziraphale, wait. Please, don’t go!”

“Leave me alone, Crowley!” the boy shouted back, another sob rising to the surface. He just barely managed to choke it back as he turned away from his best friend and raced off into the night, praying his feet would lead him home and as far away as possible from this night that had so suddenly become the worst night of his entire life.

* * *

It should be raining. By all accounts, the heavens should be flooding with all the tears Crowley would not allow himself to shed. It was morning, the magic of the previous night long gone, and he was sitting in the backseat of his father’s automobile, stuffed between several large suitcases, as they made their way out of the city.

He had ruined everything. Crowley had done the unforgivable. He had kissed his best friend. He had told Aziraphale he loved him, and he’d meant every word. And yet, he was still leaving.

He had broken Aziraphale’s heart, shattered it into a million pieces, just as he’d shattered his own. Crowley would never forgive himself for what he’d done.

Would it have been better to do nothing? Should he have remained in his own house the previous night instead of seeking the blonde out? Crowley had felt horrible at the thought of leaving London without saying goodbye to his best friend. He couldn’t do that to Aziraphale. It was too cruel.

Crowley had been telling the truth the previous night as he’d tried to explain things to Aziraphale. He hadn’t meant to declare his feelings, hadn’t meant to kiss the boy that held his affections. Aziraphale had said it first, and Crowley’s heart hadn’t been able to keep from screaming it back to him. Of course Crowley loved Aziraphale. He’d loved Aziraphale the whole goddamn time he’d known the boy. How could he not? The boy was smart and kind and funny and the most beautiful person Crowley had ever known. 

He’d been doomed from the start.

As they drove down the cobblestone streets, Crowley’s mind drifted back to the kiss they’d shared the previous night. It had been the best moment of his entire life. Aziraphale’s lips had been just as warm and soft as he’d always dreamed they would be and Crowley’s heart had come  _ alive _ in a way he hadn’t known possible. He had wanted to stay in that moment for a bloody eternity, birds and spaceships and all. That kiss could have been the last thing he ever did and Crowley would have died happily.

But no, he’d had to go and ruin everything. He had to go on and  _ leave _ Aziraphale all alone, when all Crowley wanted to do was stay.

Perhaps the weather had gotten things right after all. A literal monsoon had brought the blonde-haired angel to his side that first day. If pouring rain was a sign that his life was about to change for the better, it only made sense that a bright sunny summer morning should indicate everything was falling to shit.

_ God _ , the boy felt tears surfacing in his eyes and he furiously tried to blink them away, hoping his parents hadn’t seen. He couldn’t do this. Every second they drove further and further away, he felt like another corner of his soul was being ripped from his body and thrown to the wind. He couldn’t leave Aziraphale, not like this. Not without trying to make things right.

“Mum? Dad? Can we stop by Aziraphale’s house before we leave?” he asked, trying to keep a level voice. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

His parents exchanged a glance, then, to Crowley’s relief, he heard his father grunt softly and take the next turn, driving them into Aziraphale’s neighborhood. Heart beating in his chest, Crowley peered out the window, waiting for the moment when the white house with the navy shutters would come into view.

“Mach schnell,” his father announced as Crowley bolted from the car, slamming the door shut behind him. He practically raced to the front door, making sure to rein in his erratic knocking so as not to alarm Aziraphale’s parents.

The boy’s heart lodged itself in his throat when a certain blonde-haired angel answered the door instead.

“You came,” Crowley found himself breathing as he looked down into those dazzling blue eyes. They were a bit puffy and red around the edges, as if his friend had spent the entire night crying. Crowley felt something unpleasant settle into his stomach. This was his fault. He’d ruined everything, hurt the  _ one _ person on this goddamn earth that meant absolutely everything to him. 

Aziraphale offered him a small smile, his eyes already glossing over with a fresh wave of tears. Instead of crying, like Crowley was sure the boy felt like doing, Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I was hoping it would be you. I felt I owed you a proper farewell,” he admitted, reaching a hand into his pocket, “and I wanted to give you something.”

A gift? That was the last thing Crowley had expected. He watched with wide eyes as a familiar photograph appeared between them. Tears filled his eyes as well as he looked down at the two boys in the image and the wide grins on both of their faces. He’d never seen Aziraphale look happier, apart from the briefest of moments the night before, and that stupid tartan bear dangling from his arms was so precious it made Crowley want to wrap his arms around the boy standing before him and never ever let go.

“I can’t take that, Aziraphale,” Crowley protested, despite how much he wanted to. It was the only image that existed of the two of them together. If Crowley had possession of that picture, he would hold onto it and never ever let it go. He wasn’t allowed to keep Aziraphale. Would it be so bad to keep the memory of him instead? “It’s yours.”

Without a word, Aziraphale lifted his other hand and placed it at the top of the page. A sharp sound echoed around them as he tore the photograph in half with a single motion. Crowley’s heart shattered inside his chest. So, that was the way things were going to be. Their friendship was over. Aziraphale had been clear about that. He was never going to see Aziraphale’s beautiful, soft face again, and it was all Crowley’s fault.

“Here.”

The soft voice snapped the red-haired boy back to reality. He looked down at the paper in Azirphale’s hands as he held it out in front of him, amber eyes blown wide with confusion.

“This way, we won’t ever forget each other,” Aziraphale explained with a watery smile as he handed Crowley the half that mirrored himself, tartan bear in hand. “I’ll always have a piece of you,” he glanced down at the half of the photograph with Crowley standing front and center, “And you’ll have a piece of me.”

Crowley would have kissed him right then and there if his parents weren’t waiting in the car for him. Instead, he reached an arm out, breathing a sigh of relief as Aziraphale willing stepped into his embrace.

“I love you,” the blonde murmured so only the two of them could hear. “I love you  _ so much _ , Crowley.”

Heart in his throat, Crowley forced himself to answer back. “I love you too, angel. And I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”

What else was he supposed to say when his world was falling apart all around him? What else could he do when he was being forced to leave behind the only thing in his life that he cared about?

“We’ll find each other again, yeah?” he asked, forcing a smile as he pulled away. Crowley would have stayed in that embrace for the rest of eternity, but his parents were watching. He didn’t want to give them any reason to be suspicious. “You and I will both be applying for University in a few years. We’ll make sure we get into the same one. Then we’ll be together again.”

Aziraphale nodded his agreement. “Until then, we can write to each other.”

Crowley grinned, even as he stepped back, his half of the photograph clutched firmly between his fingertips. “Every week. You can count on that, angel.”

The blonde boy beamed and Crowley cemented the image into his memory, etching it into his very soul where he knew it would remain for the rest of eternity.

“Goodbye angel,” he whispered, turning around to head back down the steps and toward the car that was patiently idling by the side of the street.

“Goodbye, dearest,” he heard the whispered response, but did not turn around. He would not sour this memory, would not make this any harder for either of them to bear.

This was not the end, he decided right then and there. He  _ would _ see Aziraphale again. It may take a few years, but soon enough they would be by each other's sides. Until then, he just had to be patient. He would focus on his studies and get into whatever University Aziraphale wanted to go to and then they would never need to part again.

So, with a hopeful heart, Crowley climbed into the back of his father’s car, thoughts of the future spinning through his mind as it drove away and out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you guys to know that this is what happens when you leave so many lovely comments. I woke up this morning super jazzed to work on this story because of how wonderful you all made me feel yesterday. Other than my (somewhat mandatory) run this afternoon, I've barely done anything else, and I love it :) so thank you all so much <3 You are lovely people and I am so blessed you all are here with me on this journey.
> 
> After some quick brainstorming with my inspiration for this story (that's right, Lei_sam, I'm looking at you), I have decided to add an interlude in between Part 1 and Part 2 of this story. I'm not going to tell you what it is. You will just have to wait until next week to find out :)
> 
> I'll be flipping back to some of my other Good Omens related projects tomorrow and probably Tuesday, but I promise I won't leave you all hanging for long. If you're looking for something else to read in the interim (and you haven't already read it), I have another human AU on this site called "The Stars Walk Backward" that takes place in a similar time frame (1926 ish). It's my favorite piece I've written so far (although I have several that I love, including this one) and would love if you would check it out. Also, there's a ton of brilliant artwork inside (all thanks to Lei_sam, of course!). You can find it here!
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20288149/chapters/48095047
> 
> Also, if any of you have tumblr or twitter, feel free to come say hello there as well! I love talking to new people :)
> 
> https://braver-stronger-smarter.tumblr.com/  
> https://twitter.com/beckers522


	6. Interlude: A Selection of Letters

_September 1, 1907_

_Aziraphale,_

_I won’t even begin to tell you how embarrassingly excited my mother is that I’ve decided to continue writing to you for the foreseeable future. She seems convinced that this will be ‘an excellent exercise’ to practice my English while we’re here in Germany. I haven’t the faintest idea why she’s so worried. I may have been born in Bavaria and lived in a dozen different countries over my lifetime, but my mother is Scottish, for heaven’s sake. I talk to her in English all the time. You’d think she’d remember that._

_The school here isn’t so bad, but it’s no Eton. As loathe as I am to admit it, I may actually miss watching all those loudmouthed boys make fools of themselves, especially out on the cricket field. The boys here are much more sombre and not nearly as enjoyable to poke fun at._

_Did you know that all the Zodiac constellations sit in the same twenty degree section of the sky? It’s the same section that the sun and moon travels through. If you trace the night sky from east to west, you can see all thirteen of them lined up in a row._

_Now, I know you must be wondering why someone like me would know such a thing. As it turns out, this school makes us take an elective course and they had an offering for astronomy, among other things. Knowing me, could there be any other choice? I signed up the moment they posted the announcement. Now, if only I could figure out a way to convince the professor to let us go stargazing out on the lawn instead of upstairs on the second floor balcony. Studying the stars is so much more enjoyable with the cool feel of grass against your skin, wouldn’t you agree?_

_I hope the beginning of this year finds you well, despite not having me around to distract you from your studies._

_Your Friend,_

_Crowley_

**DELIVERED: September 16, 1907**

* * *

_September 17, 1907_

_Crowley,_

_It is so good to hear from you. I am delighted to hear you have settled back into your new home, although I must admit it is dreadfully boring without you here. I have kept up the tradition of sneaking food from breakfast to eat at my desk during lunch. I quite enjoy the quiet, although your company was always my favorite part about our tradition. The kitchen staff started making these scrumptious blueberry scones that taste rather good, even after being stuffed in my bag for several hours. I wish I could send you one to try. I think you might actually enjoy it._

_Speaking of cricket, I have some news you are not going to believe. Wilson and MacMillian tried to get me to try out for our house’s cricket team. Me. Can you imagine me out on that field? Traipsing around in those ridiculous uniforms, trying to hit a ball soaring toward me at ungodly speeds?_

_That is lovely to hear you are taking an astronomy course. Stargazing is something I was only introduced to recently, but I find it gives me great comfort. Perhaps I will start teaching myself about the stars as well. The night sky surely is beautiful at all times of the year. Laying down in my backyard, just looking up at those tiny white lights brings me a peace and simple joy I had never expected. I might be so bold as to claim I could sit out there looking up at those stars for an eternity._

_I hope these past few weeks have been good to you. Tell me, has your family started making plans for the holidays? My mother was just talking to me last week about a potential trip to Inverness over winter break to visit my aunt and cousins. I haven’t seen them in several years, so it is sure to be a nice treat._

_Your Friend,_

_Aziraphale_

**DELIVERED: October 3, 1907**

* * *

_December 6, 1908_

_Aziraphale,_

_My family started decorating for Christmas today. The holiday is still nearly a month away, but my mother insists on making the house look as festive as possible for as long as possible. My father and I brought in the tree and got it set up and then after lunch my mother and I unwrapped the nativity scene to place upon our fireplace mantel. It is a small nativity set - barely takes up any space there in the center of our living room, but I still find myself looking at it often throughout the season._

_Unwrapping the pieces is probably my favorite part about decorating. Some of them are shaped strangely enough that you can tell immediately which piece you have before unrolling the cloth towels around it, but most of them are too similar. It feels like Christmas morning has come early as we slowly unwrap each one, trying to guess which of the characters we have._

_Every year, my mother and have a little competition, you see. Whichever one of us correctly predicts and opens the angel gets to take a break and eat a freshly baked biscuit when we finish while the other one is forced to clean up the packaging we have inevitably strewn all across the room._

_This is the third year in a row I’ve won. It’s almost as if I have a special sixth sense that activates whenever an angel is nearby._

_I hope your holiday is wonderful and you get everything you wish for and more this year._

_Happy Christmas,_

_Crowley_

**DELIVERED: December 20, 1908**

* * *

_June 30, 1910_

_Aziraphale,_

_I’ve decided I want to be a pilot. Our class took a trip up to see the launch of the first German commercial aircraft last week. I thought it was going to be boring, but before the flight, some of us got to talk to the pilot and he was incredible. He was telling me all about the test flights he’d been on and how some of the engineers showed him how the plane was designed and it all just sounded so amazing. Can you imagine me, flying way up there above the clouds? Imagine all the things I will be able to see! I am so excited, I can hardly stand it._

_Perhaps, after I’m trained up a bit, we could take that trip to the stars after all. I think I’d like to take you to Alpha Centurai. That has been my favorite star to learn about in the two years I’ve been studying the night sky. Surprisingly, it is actually a binary star system. Although it may only appear to be a single star through most of the telescopes we use at school, it is actually two stars orbiting around the same center, so close they appear to be a single entity._

_What about you? What is it that you wish to do with your life? You’ve been my best friend since we were fifteen and I can’t believe I’ve never thought to ask you. I imagine you’d make a brilliant professor, or a researcher of some sort._

_I am very much looking forward to our next correspondence._

_Your Friend,_

_Crowley_

**DELIVERED: July 12, 1910**

* * *

_July 14, 1910_

_Crowley,_

_Being a pilot sounds frightfully exciting. I know that may sound impossible, but I promise you, it is true. I am incredibly excited that you have found something you are so passionate about, and I have the utmost faith that you will be an excellent pilot. At the same time, I know that I would be utterly terrified to even step one foot into one of those things. I much prefer keeping both of my feet firmly on the ground._

_Maybe, someday, I will find enough courage to hop into such a vehicle with you and explore the night sky. I would very much like to travel somewhere far south and look up at the sky from a new perspective. Did you know that constellations in the southern hemisphere appear inverted compared to how we are used to seeing them? I’ve also read that there are constellations down there that those of us living this far north have never seen before. Think of how amazing it would be to explore those new wonders together._

_As for myself, I believe that I desire a much simpler life than you. I’d love to work someplace quiet, surrounded by a multitude of books. Perhaps a library, although even libraries tend to have a great number of people, at times. I know the one here at Eton gets filled to the brim whenever examinations are around the corner._

_I think, if I am being completely honest, I would love to open up a bookshop. Some quiet little corner of London that I could fill to the brim with all of my favorite tales, and maybe a small flat on the second floor. It would have a tiny kitchen to make my tea and a few comfortable chairs or maybe even a couch to lounge in. I’m a simple person, as you know, except when it comes to my tastes in food. I wouldn’t need much to be truly happy._

_It may not be the most sensible of plans for my future, but if I could do anything at all, with no restrictions, that is how I dream of living my life. Just me, and my bookshop, and the brilliant stars above._

_Your Friend,_ _  
_ _Aziraphale_

**DELIVERED: July 29, 1910**

* * *

_January 2, 1911_

_Crowley,_

_I have been doing a lot of research lately into different Universities for us to attend next year, and I think I’ve narrowed our options down. It would be a dream come true to get into Oxford or Cambridge but I have heard through the grapevine that the application process is very competitive for those schools. The chances of both of us getting in are very slim. How would you feel about London University instead? Or perhaps Durham?_

_It doesn’t much matter to me where we end up going, if I’m being completely forthright. So long as you and I are finally living in the same city again, I will be happy. Have you thought much about where you’d like to attend? We wouldn’t have to stay in London, if you didn’t want to. I hear there is a wonderful school in Edinburgh that may be a good fit for us both._

_Looking back, four years felt like such a long time to be apart, and there were moments where it felt like an eternity. Now that we are less than six months away from summer I have a feeling the time will simultaneously fly by, but also take forever. I know, there I go with those impossibilities again._

_I am very much looking forward to seeing you again and I hope these next months pass by quickly for the both of us._

_Your Friend,_ _  
_ _Aziraphale_

**DELIVERED: January 18, 1911**

* * *

_February 13, 1911_

_Aziraphale,_

_I am sorry this letter took so long to reach you. I should have written back right away, but the words just wouldn’t come. You are my very best friend and all I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy. How was I supposed to tell you that our plan for University is falling apart and it’s all my fault?_

_Four years ago, I promised you that we would see each other again at University. I promised to study hard and get into whatever school you wanted to go to, and I swear to you, Aziraphale, I have. I’ve never tried harder at anything in my life. My marks these past few years have been the best they have ever been. I tried out for sports, I did extra curricular. I did everything I could to ensure I could get into the very best of schools. Wherever you wanted to go would have been fine with me._

_My father informed me last month that he and my mother will not fund an education abroad. I still do not understand why, after fifteen years of moving about all of Western Europe, my parents have decided to remain in Germany for so long. For reasons known only to them, they have decided that this country will be our permanent home and are insisting I choose a university here. They will not support me in any other endeavor._

_I hope that someday you can forgive me. The last thing I want to do is disappoint you, but I’m afraid I don’t have any other options right now. I’m so sorry, Aziraphale._

_Sincerely,_

_Crowley_

**DELIVERED: February 27, 1911**

* * *

_April 6, 1912_

_Crowley,_

_As you know, my first year here at Oxford has certainly been a grueling one, but I believe by the end of it, I shall come out on top. My studies are going well, particularly that mythology course I was telling you about. We’ve moved on from studying Greek passages to those of Norse origin and I must admit, I am finding these stories quite fascinating to study._

_In other news, I’ve also recently joined the Dance Society here at University. They had so many types of classes to choose from that I took nearly a week to decide what to sign up for. Eventually, I decided to go with a dance called the ‘Gavotte’. It’s a French line dance that originated back in the late 1600s and is accompanied usually by an instrumentalist such as a pianist or perhaps even a harpsichord. I am thoroughly enjoying the process of learning the steps to this dance and would love to be able to show you someday, if you were amenable to such an idea._

_I hope your studies are going swimmingly as well. Do you still enjoy astronomy? I wasn’t sure if you would continue your studies of the heavens in this next phase of your life or not._

_Your Friend,_

_Aziraphale_

**DELIVERED: April 21, 1912**

* * *

_May 1, 1912_

_Aziraphale,_

_I am so happy to hear that you are enjoying your second semester at Oxford. Although I do not find dancing all that enjoyable, I would be willing to watch you give it a try. Maybe you could teach me a few steps someday._

_My most recent update for you involves my future career as a transportation pilot. I was accepted into a summer training program that lasts from June all the way until September. We’re going to get to work with real pilots and see how parts of the plane are created and even take an aerodynamics course! I applied for the program in the fall, but didn’t want to tell you about it in case I didn’t get in. I only just found out last week!_

_As a result, I won’t be able to work much this summer. I am hoping to earn enough money next year to finally be able to visit you in the summer of 1914. I know it seems so far away now, but we’ve already made it five years apart. How bad could two more be?_

_I can’t wait to hear how the end of your year went. I know you will do exceptionally well in your courses. You are the most brilliant person I know. Try not to worry too much about it._

_Of course, I still enjoy astronomy. I know that the stars in the heavens will be deeply embedded in my heart for as long as I live. I cannot even begin to imagine my life without them._

_Your Friend,_

_Crowley_

**DELIVERED: May 17, 1912**

* * *

_July 16, 1914_

_Crowley,_

_I’ve been hanging onto every bit of news that I get, but we haven’t been able to find out much here in England. Are you and your family alright? I heard that the unrest had spread up into parts of Croatia and Slovenia as well. Has any of it reached Bavaria? Please tell me that you aren’t living in harm’s way._

_I’m worried about what all of this discourse means for Europe. People here in London have been talking about the possibility of a war breaking out between several of the countries involved. What a terrible thought. I can’t even imagine what a fight of that magnitude might be like. I hope and pray each day that the leaders of our nations can come together to form a peaceful solutions that all parties might be satisfied with. I know that may be wishful thinking, but what else can I do to try and alleviate this dread that seems to have wormed its way into the deepest crevices of my heart?_

_Please, Crowley, all I ask is that you keep yourself safe if the nature of the world begins to change. I don’t know what I would do if something were to happen to you. You promised me we’d see each other again this summer. I know you and I were both looking forward to your visit, but if something happens - just please promise me you’ll stay safe. Please promise that we will see each other again when everything finally settles down._

_I’d wait an eternity longer if at the end I knew I could see your smile again, just one more time._

_Yours forever,_

_Aziraphale_

**DELIVERED: July 28, 1914**

* * *

_August 2, 1914_

_Aziraphale,_

_If a war breaks out, this may be my last letter to you for a while. It doesn’t take a genius to line up the domino of events that are on our horizon. Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. It is only a matter of time before Russia and Germany leap into the fight as well. Once that happens, I have a feeling I know what Britain will do. We’ll be on opposite sides, angel. It looks like my trip to London may have to wait a while longer._

_Seven years have gone by since I last saw your face. Seven years since I’ve last heard your laugh. Seven years since I’ve last felt true joy. I know that may come across as dramatic, but it is true. While I’ve had moments of happiness with my family and friends in that time, they are but dim candles compared to the brilliance that is you._

_I know it’s dangerous to write these secrets of my heart down on paper, but angel, I’m scared. I’m scared that I will be forced to fight. I’m scared that this hatred and unrest will never end. I’m scared that I may never see you again, and I need you to know. Seven years have passed and my affections for you have only grown stronger. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about your smile and your laugh and the warmth that fills my entire soul whenever I am in your presence._

_I love you, Aziraphale. I have from the moment I met you, from the moment you walked up beside me and shielded me from the storm. I have no way to know if you still feel the same. Seven years is a long time - a lot can change, a lot has changed - but not the way I feel about you. Nor, I hope, the way you feel about me._

_Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe, angel. Promise me you will do all that you can to make it out of this war alive, however long it may last. Promise me that you won’t lose hope and I will vow to do the same._

_I will see you again when this is all over, if you wish it. No more excuses, no more chasing dreams that don’t matter. You are the only thing that matters to me. You are the only thing that I need in my life. Everything else is just noise._

_Stay safe, angel, and I promise we shall see each other again._

_Until then, I give you all of my heart._

_Forever yours,_

_Crowley_

  
  


**SERVICE SUSPENDED: RETURN TO SENDER**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially heading into the heart of this story. Part 2 will take place over a portion of World War 1 and will likely be the longest of the three parts that I write. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your support. I cannot tell you how much your words mean to me <3 I am so happy to hear you all are enjoying this story so much. I simply cannot wait to share the rest with you.
> 
> Expect the beginning of Part 2 to be up sometime this weekend (maybe as early as Friday, since I have the day off work). Until then, I hope you all have a wonderful week!


	7. Part 2: July 1, 1916

The morning air was still, covered in a thick layer of fog that coated Aziraphale’s lungs as he took deep, steadying breaths, eyes and ears at attention, searching for any sign of the approaching enemy. Knuckles ghostly white as he gripped his weapon, its familiar weight offering no comfort in the haze of anticipation that had overtaken the area around him.

He was surrounded on all sides by dirt walls, reaching up over his head toward the blue sky he knew to be hanging above them, even if he hadn’t seen evidence of its existence for three days. Aziraphale was surrounded by them as they pressed in on him from all sides, closing in as a grave did on the coffins that were inevitably lowered into their midst. 

“Alright there, Fell?” a voice asked quietly to his left. Aziraphale turned to find himself face to face with a man close to his own age, with dusty brown hair and soft hazel eyes that seemed to calm Aziraphale’s erratically beating heart as he looked into them. It was in moments like these, buried deep within the trenches, the promise of battle hovering in the air like electricity before a lightning strike, that Aziraphale wanted to throw down his weapon and surrender. It was in moments like these when he gazed at the soft expressions of another human being, an expression that by all logic should have been hardened by the near two years of constant fighting, that he was reminded he was not alone.

“As right as I’ll ever be, Private Pulsifer,” the blonde man responded, subconsciously gripping his gun ever tighter as his blue eyes drifted down the line toward their commanding officer, waiting for the moment he would order their advance. There was a plan, Aziraphale reminded himself. According to his superiors, it was a good one. If they all did what they were told, they were sure to win the day. They would drive the Germans away from the front lines. They would take Maricourt back from the enemy and victory would be theirs.

“Try not to think about it too much,” the man whispered beside him, taking a few steps closer to close the distance between them. Aziraphale’s eyes feel to the embroidered letters upon his chest. ‘N. Pulsifer’, mirroring his own ‘A. Z. Fell’ that currently lay in a single line over his heart. “Based on my experience, it will only make you sick.”

The man was right, of course. It would do Aziraphale no good to think about what horrors the day might bring, just as it did no good to dwell on the pain of yesterday either. The only way to survive was for them to live in the moment and pray that Lady Luck smiled down upon them that day. The blonde haired man sent his companion a tentative smile as he reached up to readjust the metal helmet strapped upon his head. He received a quiet nod and smile in return, doing absolutely nothing to steady his nerves.

Newton Pulsifer was a man Aziraphale had only known for the past two years. They had met at boot camp in the summer of 1914 when the fighting had broken out. To call them friends after those first several months of training would have been a stretch. Both men knew why they were there, both knew the dangers of growing too attached to the people they saw day in and day out. And yet, there was something about standing side by side and staring down into the dripping jaws of hell that brought people closer than they ever could have imagined.

Now, after two years of fighting side by side, Aziraphale couldn’t imagine his life without this man. Some days, Newton’s smile and slight awkwardness and overwhelming optimism was the only thing that kept him from ripping apart at the seams.

Silence fell around them, and not just because Aziraphale and Newton had stopped speaking to each other. Hushed conversations along the whole line faded into nothingness as their Major’s hand rose into the air. All eyes were trained on him, awaiting the signal that was sure to come. 

It came too soon for Azirpahale’s liking. The quiet flick of a wrist, the flash of a white glove against the too-grey sky. A signal that it was time to advance, to take their enemy by surprise under the cover of the suffocating fog.

Aziraphale’s eyes fell to Newton and he smiled. It was hesitant, and fleeting, and filled with fear tinged with panic, but his friend returned it all the same. This wasn’t the first battle either one of them had been a part of. God willing, it wouldn’t be the last. 

Like clockwork, men began to climb up out of the trenches, disappearing into the mist like shadows on a cloudy day. Aziraphale watched as one by one they vanished before his eyes, guns drawn, eyes fixed on something unknown and unseen that lay ahead.

A soft pat on his shoulder caused Aziraphale to turn back. His wide blue eyes locked in on Newton’s face as the man gave him a determined nod. The lines at the corners of his mouth and around his eyes only made more prominent by the layer of dirt and grime that had clung to them all like spider’s silk, impossible to wipe away. Aziraphale took the lead, his boots squelching unpleasantly in the mud underneath their feet as he followed the line of soldiers up to the exit point, careful not to take too long as he hoisted himself up onto the next level of the dirt wall and climbed out of the trench, feeling no less secure as the trampled grass took root underneath his feet.

Newton took his place beside Aziraphale and together, the two men embarked on their journey. They followed their unit to the south, travelling in a wide arc around the vast expanse of land that was commonly referred to as ‘No Man’s Land’ by all parties involved.

What a fitting title. As Aziraphale and the other soldiers crept through the stifling fog, he could understand why it would be called such a thing. On any other day, with the sun shining brightly above, this mission would have been considered suicide. The enemy would have seen their every movement, would have shot them down before they’d advanced even a hundred feet. Now, under the cover of the fog and in the stillness of the morning, they were relatively safe. As safe as they could be when walking to their deaths.

Inch by inch, they crept forward. Aziraphale tried to keep the others in his sights, but the fog only seemed to grow thicker as they advanced. Every once in a while, he would catch sight of something from the corner of his eye, causing his heart to leap with anticipation, only to discover it was some sort of broken stump or fractured tree, jutting up into the sky like the jagged teeth of a carnivore, waiting for its prey to walk haphazardly into its mouth.

The first peppering of gunshots rang out through the mist, striking fear into Aziraphale’s heart. He felt his footsteps begin to quicken as he raced across the field, following the men who had gone before him. With each step, more sounds began to join the symphony of noise around him. Stacattos of gunshots, choruses of screams and shouts, even the rhythmic pounding of land mines that had been strategically placed the night before.

Gun raised, Aziraphale went charging in. Small pockets of the fight became visible to him as the fog swirled around them. Other ally soldiers, who had closed the distance in shallow tunnels dug underneath the expanse of land between the two sides, came pouring out of the ground, taking the enemy completely by surprise. Dirt and shattered roots rocketed into the air as German soldiers raced forward to confront them, setting off explosions that took them down a dozen at a time.

_ Bang _ . A shot rang out from Aziraphale’s gun and he watched a German soldier tumble backward into the trench once more before being swallowed up by the fog. He dodged quickly to the side, joining up with several other members of his battalion as returning gunfire was shot in their direction, taking down several of his companions as they continued to advance.

_ Please be safe. Please be safe. Please be safe, _ his soul whispered with each shot he took at the enemy, his heart fracturing a bit more as bodies began to fall all around him. Aziraphale pushed the prayer from his mind, knowing that if he let his greatest fear overtake him now, he would lose himself to his despair. He would break the promise he’d made to himself the day he’d signed up to fight - a promise that he would make it out of this alive.

Aziraphale could not allow any other alternative. 

“Heads up!” Newton called out as a body rose up from the ground nearby. A shot rang out, catching the soldier in the neck. Blood spurted from the wound in an arc reminiscent of some of the fountains in Hyde Park as the man fell to the ground with a thud. Aziraphale’s stomach roiled with the thought of ever returning to that once enjoyable place.

“Thanks, Newt,” Aziraphale breathed, not allowing himself to dwell on how close that call had been.

The man simply grinned in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart ache with longing. “Just add it to that beer tab you’re going to owe me when this is all said and done.”

A nod was the only response Aziraphale could give as he turned his attention back to the fight, stopping to briefly reload his rifle while Newton stood nearby to cover him. They were nearly at the southern tip of the trenches now. Hoards of French and British soldiers had flooded the German front lines already, driving the enemy back, even as they attempted to pick off the flood of men with their artillery.

The gunshots were practically deafening now, rattling around in Aziraphale’s skull as he surged forward with the rest. He supposed, in the grand scheme of things, this was better than the overwhelming silence that had haunted him earlier that morning. In the chaos and the noise, Aziraphale could allow his instincts to take over. He no longer had to worry about what to do next. The sounds of war wormed their way in through his ears and into his mind, pushing away all other thoughts that didn’t directly relate to him finding a way out of this alive.

He could focus on all other thoughts later, at the end of the day when he was finally alone.

_ Bang! _ The shot rang out closer than any other had, and for a moment, Aziraphale thought he’d been hit. The gun had been too loud not to have affected him, and yet he felt no pain. The man remembered something about the mind taking a bit longer to catch up with the body when these sorts of things happened. Aziraphale just had to be patient and wait until he could evaluate how much damage had been done.

Instead of himself, however, the man beside him went down hard.

“Newton!” Aziraphale screamed as another blast sounded nearby. Dirt erupted out of the ground like a gueyser stream, filling the air with a mixture of dust and gunpowder. Stopping his advance, Aziraphale fell to his knees beside his friend, leaning his body over the man so he wouldn’t be trampled by his own allies rushing into battle.

“I swear,” Newton groaned beneath him as relief flooded through Aziraphale’s core. The man wasn’t dead yet. Not by a long shot. “I am the most unlucky son-of-a-bitch you will ever meet, Aziraphale.”

Knowing that every second they were out here was another second closer to being shot in the head or the neck or the chest or anywhere else that mattered, Aziraphale seized his friend by the armpits and dragged him away as fast as humanly possible, leaving his rifle sprawled out in the middle of the field. He still had a handgun strapped to his waist. In a pinch, it would have to do.

Soldiers were still streaming out of the makeshift tunnels they had dug underneath this wasteland that stretched out between the two sides. Aziraphale would have to cross back to their trenches above ground. Luckily the fog was still in place, offering him some cover, but if the Germans started gaining traction as they fought back, this wouldn’t be a safe space for long.

The quickest way back would be to take the direct route, but that was where they had expected the Germans to go, so that was where they had placed the land mines. The safest route would be to take Newton in a wide arc back around the battlefield, but did he have that kind of time?

“Can you walk?” Aziraphale nearly shouted over the clamor of the battle going on all around him. Newton grunted in response, rolling over to lift himself up on his elbows, one hand falling down to clutch at his stomach.

“Help me?”

Did he even have to ask? Aziraphale was beside him in an instant, Wrapping his arms around Newton to support him, lifting the man up with strength he didn’t know he possessed as he lead them both back to the relative safety of the front line.

The trek back was nearly as excruciating as the race there had been. With every labored step, Aziraphale expected to see German soldiers rushing them from either side, guns drawn, the fire of hatred in their eyes, but they never came. Aziraphale and Newton returned to the trenches unmolested, a groan from Newton the only sound escaping the pair as Aziraphale sat him down gently against the muddy brown wall.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale soothed as he struggled with shaking hands to undo the clasp beneath Newton’s chin. “It’s going to be alright, Newt. Just hang in there.” The man’s voice suddenly caught in his throat as his eyes flickered down to the dark red stain quickly spreading across Newton’s stomach.  _ Shit.  _ There was so much blood. Why was there so much blood? Newton was going to be alright, he  _ had _ to be. “Talk to me, Newton. Keep talking, yeah? While I patch you up. I don’t want to find you stopping for anything, do you hear me?”

A soft chuckle emerged from the other man’s lips, giving Aziraphale enough respite to quell his trembling fingers and get the blasted metal thing  _ off _ Newton’s head so at least he could breathe a little easier. Immediately, the man reached upward, clawing at the pocket overtop his chest in an attempt to get it open. Aziraphale placed a hand overtop of Newton’s, lowering it to the scrap of cloth he’d managed to fish from his supplies and place over the worst part of the wound.

“Here,” Aziraphale ordered, guiding Newton’s hand to the rag, watching as the dark blood began to seep from the man’s uniform onto the newly introduced item. “Keep pressure on it while I look for a way to get us out of here.”

Newton moaned, from the pain or something else entirely, Aziraphale didn’t know. “Zira...phale,” the words came out faint and raspy and Aziraphale felt his heart lodge itself in his throat. What was he supposed to do? He’d gone through training for an event such as this, but all the training in the world couldn’t prepare him for something so horrible.

“My pocket.”

Right. Blue eyes flashed upward to the small olive colored pouch above Newton’s heart. Faster than he thought possible, Aziraphale had undone the gold button and flipped the covering open, fingers diving in to retrieve whatever item his friend so desperately needed in that moment.

Tears filled his eyes as Aziraphale took in the forms of two very pretty girls immortalized on this single page. One was older, with long dark hair half tied up at the top of her head and caramel colored skin that looked soft and smooth. In the photograph, she wore a high-necked dress that reached all the way down to her feet and a single chained pendant, laying over her heart. The woman was sitting on a chair with Newton standing behind her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder. Both adults were smiling ear to ear as they gazed into the camera, while the third person in the photograph, a tiny baby girl dressed in all white, slept soundly in the woman’s arms.

Without a word, Aziraphale handed Newton the picture of his family, making sure it was the man’s blood-free hand that grabbed onto it. With tears in his eyes, Newton gazed down at the image, a soft smile finding its way onto his face, fighting through the pain.

“Her name is...Anathema,” the man breathed, voice barely more than a whisper as Aziraphale glanced up and down the trench. Men were racing back and forth, shouting to each other in words he could barely understand. Gunfire echoed across the fields, piercing through the thick fog like it was nothing. What could he do? Where could he take them? The nearest camp was almost a mile away, through torch lined tunnels and dark passageways that twisted and turned with almost every step. Was that his best course of action? Was returning Newton to their base the only way to save him?

“And your little girl?” Aziraphale found himself asking as he leaned forward to take Newton’s weight, slinging the man’s free arm around his shoulder. “What is her name?”

“Claire,” the man breathed beside his ear and Aziraphale found himself smiling despite the nightmare he’d been plunged into. His heart ached with the thought of that little girl growing up without a father, especially one as wonderful as the man currently clinging to his life by a thread. “Her name...is Claire.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” Aziraphale remarked as he dragged Newton forward, stumbling as they went. Gunshots still fired, echoing all around them as screams filled his ears. It was impossible to tell in this mist where any of it was coming from. The man could only hope that once he got them further back into the tunnels, they would be safe enough from the ongoing battle.

“What ‘bout you?” the man asked, his words slurring ever so slightly as Aziraphale forced them to continue walking. They were out of the open now, underneath a reinforced bunker with a tunnel dug out of the back, leading further west, away from the fighting. 

“What?” Aziraphale asked, focusing too much on keeping them both upright to follow what Newton was saying.

“Family,” Newton groaned as the blood from the cloth began to seep through his fingers, staining his hand a crimson red. “Do you have...anyone...back home?”

Tears pricked at his eyes as Aziraphale’s heart began to disintegrate inside his chest. He’d tried so hard for so long to keep from thinking about it, but the sincerity in his friend’s pain-laced question brought all the memories flooding back to the surface of his mind. Memories of golden gazes and soft hands. Memories of brilliantly bright stars and picnics and pears and a small gold watch whose ever-present ticking reminded his heart to go on even when Aziraphale knew it could not. 

“No,” he murmured, not sure whether the words were a lie or not. “I don’t.”

“I’ve got...a sister,” his friend managed to huff out. “She’s...not so bad...once you get past all those...annoying traits all sisters have.”

Aziraphale laughed in both relief and in fear. If Newton was joking, that either meant he was going to be fine or he was quickly slipping closer to Death’s door.

“You don’t want me to talk about my abysmal love life,” Aziraphale assured him with a smile, pushing back the fear and despair for a few moments longer, realizing that eventually, it would rear its ugly head once more and he’d be forced to deal with it for real. “Let’s pass the time with a more hopeful story. Tell me about your lady. Anathema.”

And so, he did. Newton told Aziraphale all about his wife on their trek back to camp. He spoke of her beauty and her grace. Her wicked intelligence and sharp sense of humor. He told Aziraphale how they’d first met at University when she’d laughed at him after he’d stumbled down an entire flight of brick stairs. He said it was her laugh that first drew him in, and it was her brilliant mind and kind heart that kept him by her side ever since.

“My girl, Claire,” Newton continued, “she was born in the spring, right before the war.” Aziraphale didn’t know if it was wishful thinking or the truth, but he thought his friend might be breathing a little easier now. Focusing his thoughts on his family seemed to be doing enough to calm Newton down - to force the shock and the pain from his body, at least momentarily. “I’ve got...another picture of her back at camp. She turned two not too long ago. ‘Nathama tells me she’s talking now. Loves to read stories.”

“I wish I was around...to read to her.”

After nearly thirty minutes, Aziraphale reached the medical tent, collapsing on the ground as nurses rushed to get Newton to a bed. The blonde haired man kept insisting he didn’t need help, that he wasn’t hurt, but the women would hear none of his excuses. Covered in dust and dirt and gunpowder and blood, he hardly blamed them, and when he was ordered to go get himself examined and to lie down before he gave himself a heart attack, Aziraphale found he didn’t have any fight left in him to disobey.

According to reports he heard later that evening, they had won the day. The German Army had been pushed back from the front line all the way to Serre in the north and here, several kilometers east of Maricourt, at the southern point of the army lines. The combined forces of the British and French armies had accomplished what they’d set out to do and more, but at what cost? As the next day dawned, over nineteen thousand men had been recorded as killed in battle with over double that count fighting for their lives in nearby tents and makeshift hospitals. Aziraphale had been one of the lucky ones, he realized, as the death toll rose with each minute that ticked by.

Only time would tell whether Newton Pulsifer would be counted among them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done a lot of research as I've been writing this story, but I want to just let you all know I am not, by any means, a history expert. So, if you come across anything I've written that isn't completely accurate, I apologize. It wasn't my intention - I'm just a simple mathematician trying her best!
> 
> Again, I cannot thank you all enough for the overwhelming response I've gotten to this story so far. Your comments are my life and reading them makes me so unbelievably happy, you have no idea <3 You all are wonderful and I just hope I can continue to do this story justice for you, my faithful readers!


	8. Part 2: July 4, 1916

The best time to go out on mission was early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen in the sky. The soft blanket of grey clouds that often were seen overhanging the German skies served as the perfect cover for a plane to take off and make its transit into enemy territory.

Crowley had been flying this route for months, ever since he’d completed basic training and been assigned his first mission. It was his responsibility to go out and gather data. Where were the enemy troops located? How many of them were there? What kind of artillery power did they have? Had they moved anything since the last time someone had flown over? What did their aircraft inventory look like? All of this information was pertinent in allowing German officials to decide where to lead the troops into battle. The work Crowley did on a day to day basis helped to win battles. Helped to save the lives of his countrymen.

It was no delivery work. It wasn’t exactly what he had signed himself up for when he’d decided to be a pilot. Crowley knew that each minute he was up in the air was a minute closer to his potential demise. He could be spotted at any moment. Shot down by a lucky ground missile or another enemy aircraft if he wasn’t careful. But did that really matter? As far as he was concerned, his chances of survival up here were much higher than if he still had both feet on the ground.

Despite the risk, it was still flying. He was still soaring up in the air, thousands of feet above the ground. From here, Crowley couldn’t see the fine details of individual leaves on every tree, but he could see the wide expanse of the forests. He could see rivers rushing by and birds as they took off into the sunrise. He could see mountains rising up in the south when clouds weren’t hovering nearby, blocking his view. Crowley could feel the individual droplets of moisture with each one he passed through and he grinned each and every time, despite the chill and the tiny beads of water that clung to his goggles, forcing him to lift an arm to wipe them away.

Up here, he felt free. Up here, he felt like he was in a whole new world. A world that was beautiful and clean and infinite. A world that he wanted to spend the rest of his life exploring.

The only thing that was missing was someone to share it all with.

A shadow suddenly fell over-top him. For a moment, Crowley assumed it was just another cloud drifting by overhead. Most of the sky had been covered when he’d originally taken off - perfect weather for his reconnaissance mission. The cloud cover wasn’t ideal for surveillance photographs, naturally, but it allowed him to quickly dart up into cover whenever he directly flew over-top an enemy camp in order to avoid being seen. 

As the day had progressed, however, that cloud cover had quickly disappeared, breaking off into pockets of white amidst a bright blue sky. He’d been flying below them, for the time being, positioning himself above Russian camps to mark their locations and take photographs to take back with him when he returned. Crowley wasn’t terribly worried about the lack of cover. German intelligence had revealed that the Russians had developed an anti-aircraft gun that could take down a plane like his in a matter of seconds. So far, they’d only seen evidence of it being used during bombing strikes, to try and down multiple aircraft at once. The weapon wasn’t sophisticated enough to accurately hit a single plane on its own. Especially not one piloted by someone like Crowley.

It was only by sheer luck that a small, dense cloud passed underneath him in that moment. Only by sheer luck that Crowley happened to be looking downward so his eyes could take in the shape of the shadow passing over him. The long, thin center, wide rectangular wings spread out on either side.

It was the shadow of another plane.

“Shit!” the man hissed, pulling up on the controls in an attempt to get out of the way as something thudded against the wing of his aircraft. Crowley banked quickly to the left, watching with his heart in his throat as the familiar looking green object rolled down the metal surface before flying off the end. A second later, a loud explosion was heard as the blue sky was filled with a flash of light and smoke.

Fighting to keep his hands steady, Crowley pulled the plane into a dive, grasping for the radio currently hooked to the dashboard in front of him.

“Crowley to Central Command”, he practically shouted into the mouthpiece as the plane banked again, avoiding a second volley of grenades as they fell from the sky. As Crowley pulled back up, he managed to catch a glimpse of the plane that had snuck up on him unawares. It was a rickety looking thing, pale yellow in color, with three concentric circles painted on the side. As he passed by, Crowley was able to catch a flash of color before the insignia disappeared from sight. Blue then white then red.

“I’ve got a Russian bird on my tail,” Crowley called out through the contraption as he spun the plane around again, eyes darting to his left, trying to keep the enemy plane in sight. “Maneuvering ‘round to take the shot. What information do you have for me?”

Crowley needed to know if there were other planes in the area. One Russian aircraft, he could take in his sleep. Two might be a bit difficult, but with the proper cloud cover, he could manage. Three? Well, they might as well start digging his grave now. 

For the briefest of moments, time seemed to stand still. Crowley’s eyes slid from the blue sky above him to a pair of familiar eyes that he knew to be just as blue, even if the faded parchment before him refused to show it. That wide smile, those wild curls, the way his arms clung to that ridiculous tartan bear. So strong, even then. How Crowley wished he knew how those arms might feel as they held onto him with similar care and devotion.

 _Aziraphale_. His heart ached. 

_We’ve got reports of another aircraft about ten miles out,_ the operator on the other line announced and the taut lines of Crowley’s worried frown arched upward in a wide, wild-eyed grin.

“Not today, you bastards,” he growled, then pulled back hard on the controls, shooting the plane upward and narrowly missing another grenade as it was launched toward him from the enemy aircraft. As long as he repositioned himself correctly, he’d be fine. He would live to see another day.

The controls trapped beneath his fingers began to tremble and Crowley held in his breath. “Come on,” he hissed between clenched teeth as the muscles in his arms screamed in pain and the world around him became a blur of blue and grey and green. “Just a little bit more.”

 _There_. 

Crowley pulled out of the spin, forcing his stomach out of his throat as the plane leveled off, the Russian aircraft directly in his sights. A split second later, his fingers were on the trigger, clenching down on the metal lever as if his life depended on it.

As far as he knew, it did.

Bullets ricocheted out of the nose of his plane, timed perfectly to fly through the blades of the propeller without a single point of contact. Thank heaven for German engineering. German engineering and synchronization gears and planes that didn’t nosedive out of the sky every time Crowley thought to do something a little more than insane.

They struck the wings of the Russian plane, tearing a multitude of holes in the thin metal frame. The plane banked to the right and Crowley followed it, letting loose another stream of ammunition that bore down on the nose of the enemy plane. He saw a flash of light and smoke and heard an echoing bang above the wind whipping around his ears as his attack pierced through the metal exterior and punctured the engine currently keeping the plane aloft.

The metal bird went down, trailing twin lines of smoke all the way to the ground. Crowley didn’t stick around to watch the landing. He’d seen enough of these interactions to know what happened next. Instead, the man tugged back on the controls, directing his aircraft back up into the air and above the approaching cloud cover. Turning it toward the sun, slowly creeping its way across the sky, the man reached once more for the radio.

“Crowley to Command,” he breathed, finally releasing the full breath he’d been holding trapped inside his lungs. “Russian bird has been downed. Returning to base before the next one makes an appearance.”

 _Roger that,_ the voice on the other line spoke. _Excellent work, sir. We will see you back here soon._

Hand trembling slightly, Crowley reached forward and rehung the radio on the two metal spokes that stuck out from his dashboard, holding it upright in front of him. Once again, his eyes fell to the faded photograph that had been wedged between two small metallic bolts toward the top of the frame. The corners fluttered briefly in the breeze as he soared over-top clouds and fields wide expanses of forests. Crowley knew from experience that the photograph wouldn’t come flying off. He’d made sure of that ages ago, yet still couldn’t help himself from frequently flicking his gaze back to it. There was something about having that one possession here in front of him that helped calm the man. That gave him hope that he might live to see another day. 

His fingers traced lightly over the black and white ink, pressing down firmly on the tack that connected the picture to the metal contraption as it soared through the air. Crowley would remove it when he left, leaving no trace that the photograph had ever been there. For now, that gummy substance was the only thing that kept his most prized possession secure, no matter what insane maneuver Crowley decided to employ while out on mission.

“Made it through another day, angel,” he whispered softly to the face beaming up at him. Pain tugged at his heart as he thought of all the things that could have become of Aziraphale. It had been two years since he’d heard from the man. Two years since he had poured out his heart upon parchment, bled ink across the pages and shipped them away. Two years, and in all those days, he’d never heard a reply.

Aziraphale could be dead. He could be buried six feet underground, lying exposed in the trenches, a bullet hole in his head, his heart, his stomach. He could by lying in a hospital tent now, struggling to take a simple breath. He could have been injured beyond repair and sent home. Broken and bruised, unable to walk, unable to speak.

Crowley had seen all sorts of atrocities in the two years since this war had begun. Any one of them could have happened to his beloved angel. There was no way for Crowley to know if Aziraphale was alright. He would just have to hold onto hope that his friend was out there somewhere. Perhaps even wondering the same things about him.

He tried to convince himself there was a reason he hadn’t heard a reply. The letter would have taken nearly two weeks to reach Aziraphale. By then, the war had begun on all sides. A letter posted to him in Germany would have never made it from London. Even if the countries had still decided to pass mail back and forth between them, Crowley wouldn’t have been at home to receive it. Less than a day after he’d written that letter, Germany had entered the war. As a participant of one of Germany’s summer pilot schools, Crowley had been immediately contacted to join the _Luftstreitkräfte._ He’d left home a less than a week after the declaration against Russia had been made and Crowley had been with the force ever since.

 _At least he knows,_ the man thought to himself as he approached the familiar landing strip of the base that had been his home for the past several months. _At least he knows how I feel about him. In all this chaos, that has to be worth something._

It would be worth something to him, had their situations been reversed. Crowley would have given anything to have some sort of proof that Aziraphale’s affections were still true. Nine years was a long time. What if Aziraphale had found someone else? What if he realized Crowley wasn’t worth the risk? What if he’d grown tired of waiting, or assumed that Crowley had died along with the millions of other men who had been fighting? What if he didn’t _want_ to love Crowley anymore? Crowley was a German soldier after all. The enemy. They were on opposite sides. If Aziraphale truly believed that, would he even want to speak to Crowley again?

He’d said in the last letter that Crowley had received that he hoped Crowley and his family was safe. That Aziraphale hoped there would be no war, but if one did occur, he’d asked Crowley to see himself safely through it to the other side. 

_I’d wait an eternity longer if at the end I knew I could see your smile again, just one more time._ Those had been Aziraphale’s last words to him. Crowley had memorized every stroke of the pen, ever curve of the lettering. Memorized how it had made his heart simultaneously leap for joy and ache with longing. He’d promised that they would see each other again, after the war finally ended. Aziraphale had read that promise. So long as the other man still wished it and kept himself alive, they would be together again eventually.

Crowley had to believe that. If he didn’t, what else did he have left?

The landing, like always, was a cinch. Once again, Crowley had been blessed to make it back in one piece, no damage at all to his plane, despite how close some of those grenades had come to bringing him down. He pulled the aircraft to a neat stop and reached forward to pluck the photograph from out in front of him, stowing it safely in his left chest pocket before making any move to exit the plane.

Crewmen were already on the ground around him, cheering as the man made his exit. Crowley smiled at them, waving politely as several of them reached out to shake his hand, clapping him enthusiastically on the back.

“Well done, sir.”

“Congrats on another victory.”

“Another one bites the dust, eh?”

Crowley simply nodded his head, eyes falling to a man standing not too far away. He was dressed in a clean pressed uniform, medals adorning the surface of his grey fabric coat, a bright red stripe across his brimmed hat. 

“Major Wagner,” Crowley greeted with a respectful nod as he pulled the aviator’s gear from his head, blinking as the bright afternoon sun hit his exposed eyes. He tried to focus his attention on the man standing before him. When at attention, they were around the same height, although it was obvious the major had more than a few years on Crowley. His salt and pepper hair was neatly combed back and mostly hidden beneath his attire, but his thick grey mustache was on full display for all to see.

“Excellent work today, Flieger Crowley,” the Major commended, hands folded properly behind his back. “Your performance these past few months has not gone unnoticed by those in higher command. Alone, you have been instrumental in winning half a dozen battles on this front, and have brought down more than two dozen enemy aircraft. You are a true asset to your nation.”

“Thank you, sir,” the man responded, lifting up a hand in salute as his heart thudded wildly against his chest. He couldn’t explain it, but Crowley had a sinking feeling he knew why this man had bothered to approach him the second he touched back down on German soil. “Just trying to do my best to stay alive out there and bring home whatever information I can.”

The Major nodded, eyes drifting over to the parked aircraft where crewmen were likely already unloading the information from the camera Crowley had used to take photographs of enemy force locations and numbers. This information was instrumental to the German officers as they planned where to strike next. It was how they continued to win battle after battle as the months wore on. Crowley was one of many reconnaissance pilots, doing his job each and every day to bring back the information they would need to get an edge on the Russian forces. He was one of the best, and it would appear some of the higher-ups were finally taking notice.

“And you do so extremely well,” the man pointed out, reaching into his pocket to pull out a single sheet of paper, folded three ways and sealed with a familiar cross shaped stamp. “Which is why I have taken it upon myself to bring you this.”

Crowley took the sheet of paper, breaking the seal with a single motion of his index finger, his stomach sinking into his boots before even reading the first words upon the page.

The Major opened his mouth to speak again, his next words echoing the one truth Crowley had been fearing the most since the day this bloody war had begun. 

“You are needed on the Western Front, Flieger Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go everyone! A chapter from Crowley's POV. I tried my best to make the fight believable, but I'm no aerospace engineer. I have no idea if those maneuvers would have caused a WW1 era plane to fall from the sky or not (I did do research on early dog-fighting, and it sounded like this is a type of encounter that may have happened, so I'm rolling with it). I know a lot more about air combat in the present day, but WW1 planes were still so new, so I had a hard time figuring out what they were capable of.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. We'll be flipping back to Aziraphale next to find out what will happen to Newt, among other things.
> 
> Thanks again for all the support <3 You all are amazing!


	9. Part 2: July 8, 1916

A week had gone by since Newton had been shot. A week full of guns and smoke and fear and adrenaline and relief and restless nights with no sleep. Rinse and repeat. Get up, clamber out of the mud and dirt and trench walls to do it all over again.

It was a miracle Aziraphale was still alive, he was sure of it. He’d been out on that battlefield every day for the past seven days, surrounded by hatred and rage and pain and fear. Time after time, he’d heard the deafening crack of a rifle and watched as bodies dropped to the ground, slamming down into the dirt as gravity tried to pull them under. Time after time, he had heard that all-too-familiar sound and his heart had screeched to a halt inside his chest, convinced it was him that was finally being brought down.

Eventually, the fighting had ceased for a moment and Aziraphale and his company had been ordered back to camp. The moment he returned, the man had rushed to the medical tent, heart filling with relief and dread to find that his friend was still alive. Still breathing, and still unresponsive.

_ Give him a few more days, _ the nurse had told him as Aziraphale had sat by Newton’s side, head bowed, hands clasped tightly in front of him like a man deep in prayer.  _ We think he’s going to pull through. He just needs a little more rest. _

A few more days. Did Aziraphale have a few more days left to give? A little more rest. How much rest was Newton really receiving as he lay unconscious on a thin cloth suspended upon a wire frame, surrounded by dozens of other soldiers all fighting for their life?

Aziraphale sat with Newton as long as he could, until the weariness took over him and he was barely able to remain upright. A gentle hand on his shoulder and a stern gaze sent him packing, with a soft smile that promised he could return to check on his friend the next day.

Now, as the moon hit its zenith in the sky, casting shadows all across the tent-laden field, Aziraphale found himself slowly meandering through the camp. Even though night had fallen long ago, many soldiers were still milling about, huddled around campfires, scarfing down bowls of a substance that could barely pass as food, talking to one another in hushed whispers, or simply sitting on their own, lost in the maze of their own thoughts.

Aziraphale took up a spot near his tent. Half a dozen men were already sleeping inside, laid out on mats upon the stifled grass. For a moment, the man thought about joining them, the weariness from earlier seeping into his bones, draining him from the inside out, but something in the distance caught his eye. The light around him dimmed suddenly, and Aziraphale found himself looking up, watching as a lone shadow crept across the sky, blocking out the moon and several stars nearby.

“Aquila,” Aziraphale found himself murmuring, recognizing the missing constellation instantly. He felt a stab of pain in his chest as memories of a summer’s evening long gone but never forgotten entered his mind. It had been almost nine years since that day. Nine years since the night Aziraphale would call the happiest moment of his life.

He still thought about that moment, every day that went by. Still pictured the collection of fireflies hovering in the treetops above. Still remembered how the cool blades of grass had brushed up against his skin as his trembling hand had held onto the hand of another.

“Crowley,” the man breathed as his attention focused in on the soft vibrations against his chest. _ Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick _ . The heartbeat of a watch, beating in time with the muscle buried within his own chest.

Turning his attention away from the sky above, Aziraphale reached into his pocket and pulled out the familiar golden object, worn a bit on the edges after so many years on the man’s person. Gently, it rested in his outstretched palm, wings turned upward toward the moon that was now slowly peeking its face around the cloud still drifting by.

A sudden and deep sorrow overtook Aziraphale and he had to bury his head in his knees to keep from crying out, fist clenching down on the pocket watch, obscuring it from view.  _ Gods,  _ why did it have to hurt so much? Why, after all this time, did it still feel like a part of his soul was missing? They said time was supposed to heal all wounds, so why did he still feel so  _ empty _ inside?

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep waking up day after day, rushing into the gaping jaws of Hell, just waiting for the final moments of sun against his skin, waiting for the final breath to leave his lungs. He couldn’t keep  _ hoping _ that things would get better. Couldn’t keep  _ wishing  _ those in higher positions than him might finally come to a compromise and end this infernal war. Couldn’t keep  _ praying  _ he might finally have the one thing in life that would make him truly happy.

Did Crowley even want that still? Did Crowley even want  _ him? _ Aziraphale had no idea. The last correspondence he’d heard from his dear friend had been before all the fighting had begun. Two years of silence. Two years of agony - of not  _ knowing. _

What were the chances? What were the chances that the man he loved was still alive? Thousands of men died each and every day, on both sides of the war. What were the chances Crowley had made it this far? What were the chances this fighting might end as the sun began its climb across the sky once more? What were the chances that if Aziraphale was finally permitted to go home, Crowley might come with him?

“Please…” the man moaned through his tears, feeling like his entire body was being torn apart by grief from the inside out. Feeling like he was tumbling down a dark tunnel. Down and down and down, the light from the surface rapidly shrinking until there would be nothing of it left. He gasped for air, vaguely aware that there were other soldiers sleeping nearby and he would likely be overheard if he didn’t get a handle on himself. “Please, be  _ safe. _ ” The space behind his eyelids lit up with images of soft, amber eyes, flaming red hair, and a smile that could soothe even his tortured soul.

“Please be alive,” Azirpahale continued, his words hardly more than a whisper as the tears dripped down his nose and onto the flattened earth in between his feet. Pain sparked in his palm as he gripped the watch even tighter, forcing his breaths to slow, lining up his heartbeat with the constant ticking as the gentle motion vibrated in the palm of his hand.

“Please still want me.”

_ I know that the stars in the heavens will be deeply embedded in my heart for as long as I live. I cannot even begin to imagine my life without them. _

Aziraphale had been so afraid when he and Crowley had been forced to spend their University years apart. He’d been so afraid that the man might forget him, might move on from their friendship and leave him behind. Based on the words from Crowley’s letter, that didn’t seem to be the case, but how could Aziraphale be sure when he couldn’t ask the man? Although he loved Crowley with all his heart and wanted nothing more than to  _ be  _ with him, in every sense of the word, Aziraphale could live without Crowley’s love, if he had to. What he couldn’t live without was the man’s presence in his life. Aziraphale didn’t know how to live without Crowley’s friendship. 

It was a miracle he was still alive, after all of these years of loneliness and longing slowly suffocating his soul and squeezing the warmth from his heart. He should be dead. He should be gone. There was nothing left inside of him. Nothing left after the fighting and the killing and the tears and the pain. Peel it all away and Aziraphale was nothing - nothing but an empty shell of a man. Barely fit to be called human.

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, Aziraphale lifted his head and unclenched the fist in front of him, pressing the side of his thumb into the worn clasp at the top of the watch. His heart leapt in his chest as the metal cover snapped open, revealing the familiar thin hands slowly rotating around the ivory face. Wiping the tears from his cheeks, Aziraphale twisted his wrist, turning his gaze to the back of the watch’s cover and the faded smile of the boy grinning back at him.

_ Crowley. _ Aziraphale’s free hand moved forward, fingertips tracing the photograph that had been pasted inside the gift he had been so lovingly given so long ago.

_Did you love me, even then?_ A broken smile made its way onto Aziraphale’s face. _There, sitting on the bank of the Thames? Or did it come later?_ _When did it start for you? Why did it start for you? You could have chosen anyone to be your friend. Anyone at all, and you chose me. Why me? What is so special about me?_

What he wouldn’t give for a response. Some kind of sign to tell him he wasn’t alone. That his fears were unfounded. That Crowley still loved him, unapologetically, unconditionally. That he might even dream of a future together. One with a cozy house and a white picket fence. Somewhere by the sea or up in the mountains. Somewhere where they would be free to love each other without fear. 

Aziraphale dreamed of such things every night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Crowley’s face. His smile, his gorgeous amber eyes, the tiny freckles that dotted his nose. Every night as he fought off visions of death and destruction, Aziraphale pictured that tiny house by the sea. He saw the small garden out front, the warm, comfortable fireplace where they would sit side by side in the cold winters. It was the only thing that kept his heart still beating inside his chest, the only thing that still forced air into his lungs. All he had to do was make it through this nightmare alive, and he would be alright.

He would see Crowley again. He  _ had  _ to. There was no other option.

“Private Fell.”

Aziraphale turned his head to look over his shoulder, quickly snapping the watch closed and slipping it back in the pocket that covered his heart. The man standing before him was a familiar one, if only vaguely. Another individual of the same rank, Private Davies was a man of barely twenty years old with cropped brown hair and the beginnings of a mustache growing on his upper lip. He was in a different platoon than Aziraphale, but the pair had bumped into each other enough over the past two years to be on friendly terms.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted, rising to his feet, not bothering to brush the dust and the dirt from his trousers. What was the point? After spending nearly a week in the trenches, what was a little extra filth added to his already ruined uniform?

“Major Harris wishes to speak to you,” he announced, eyes drifting toward the large tent a few hundred feet away. “Seemed pretty important.”

Aziraphale nodded his head, heart thudding in his chest as he followed the man’s gaze. “Right. I best get to it then.” He took several steps forward in the direction of the indicated tent, then turned back to face his fellow soldier.

“Have a good evening, Davies.”

The man nodded his head, brown eyes glistening under the moonlight. “You too, Fell.”

Aziraphale quickly made his way across the camp, slipping in between tents and along paths of faded and trampled grass until he reached his destination. Taking in a deep breath and focusing on the gentle beat of the ticking watch against his chest, Aziraphale ducked inside.

“Congratulations, Private Fell,” Major Harris began the moment he caught sight of the blonde haired man. From behind his back, the man revealed a piece of parchment, folded three times over and sealed with red wax, handing it over with a tight smile. “You’ve been promoted.”

Aziraphale blinked, turning the piece of paper over in his hands, examining the bright red seal that adorned the back. “Promoted, sir?”

“Yes, absolutely,” his commanding officer reiterated, pacing across the length of his tent to examine the pile of papers strewn across his desk. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed your outstanding performance in the field, Fell. This is a long time coming. You’ve earned this.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Aziraphale responded, not knowing what else to say. He was glad someone had noticed him in such a way, but wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for such responsibility. Who was he to decide how another man should fight? Who was he to lead his countrymen into battle, to watch them die because of a decision he’d made? More than anything, Aziraphale just wanted to be sent home. He knew it was a cowardly thing to want, when so many people were out there on the battlefield, fighting until their last breath. Aziraphale would stand by their side until the bitter end - he was no coward. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to such things.

“Yes,” the Major continued, clasping his hands firmly behind his back as he stood at attention. Aziraphale immediately mirrored the man’s actions, bringing his sky blue gaze up to his commanding officer’s face.

“As a newly appointed Lance-Corporal,” his voice rang out around them, echoing across the tent as it had no right to, “you’ve been assigned a new mission of the utmost importance.”

He paused, reaching up to brush a hand across his neatly trimmed dark brown beard. Aziraphale waited for a moment, expecting the man to continue, to offer up some sort of details on this so-called mission. What would he be doing? Which men would be placed under his command? When would it be taking place and who would he be working with to come up with a suitable strategy?

“A mission, sir?” Aziraphale asked, hoping his question might spur the man to elaborate a bit more on his previous statement when the Major fell silent for some time.

Instead, the Major only nodded. “Quite right, Lance-Corporal Fell. One that might change the course of this war on the Western front, should you and the others prove to be successful. At the very least, you will be saving a lot of lives.”

The man paused a second time and Aziraphale sighed quietly. Apparently, the only way he was getting answers was the direct approach. “And what might this mission be, sir?”

He looked down at Aziraphale for quite some time after that, an unknown thought quite obviously running through his mind. Aziraphale watched as the lines around his mouth darkened, the usual neutral face slowly morphing into one of grave seriousness. The man felt his stomach twist violently inside of him, anxiously waiting for the words that might come next.

“We are going to take out the Hardecourt air base.”

* * *

He couldn’t do this. 

Crowley couldn’t do this. He absolutely could not fight in this war. Not on this side. Not on this front. Not when everything and everyone he’d ever cared about could be hurt because of him. His grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins - everyone on his mother’s side of the family was here. And while they may not live in France or Belgium, if they were involved in the war effort at all, they would be there. Any information Crowley gathered on the opposing forces could lead to an attack. He could be directly responsible for the deaths of his family if he continued on like this.

And  _ Aziraphale. _ Crowley’s breath caught in his throat and he fell against the sharp, metal frame of his bed, the material jabbing into the back of his knees so hard the man thought it might bruise. If Crowley got in that plane tomorrow morning and went out to do his mission, if he came back and reported on the French and British troops and Aziraphale  _ died _ because of the information he’d learned, he would never forgive himself. Crowley would rather never take another breath, never see the light of another sunrise so long as he could guarantee the safety of the one person he loved most in all of the world.

A ragged sob burst through his lungs as Crowley leaned forward, one hand flying up to his chest to clutch at the fabric of his shirt. The other one slapped itself over his mouth to stifle the sounds of his cries as Crowley folded in on himself, trying to banish the terrible thoughts that had suddenly invaded his mind. Aziraphale lying dead in the trenches. Aziraphale consumed by fire and earth as bombs landed on top of him. Aziraphale’s bright blue eyes turned cold and grey as all the life drained away.

“No…” the man moaned, gasping for air as he tried to pull himself out of the visions. “No, please.” He was drowning, being pulled down into the darkest depths of his own mind by the fears that hovered around him each and every day. It was pressing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs and puncturing every corner of his heart, threatening to tear him apart piece by piece. He was never going to escape, never going to stop feeling this overwhelming agony that filled his entire being. There was nothing left. Everything was darkness and death and loss and pain. He was losing himself, doomed to wander this vast emptiness forever, never to see the light of day again.

He needed air. Crowley needed to get out of this room or he would suffocate under the weight of all the emotions roiling inside of his chest, tearing apart his heart piece by piece. Forcing his hands to his side, the man gripped the cold metal frame beneath him and pushed upward. Crowley stumbled across the room, hand waving wildly as it grasped for the handle on the door.

Flinging it open, Crowley rushed outside, breathing in deeply as the night air hit his lungs like a tidal wave. It wasn’t particularly cold air, but the freshness compared to the air inside his sleeping quarters was enough to shock the man out of his panic for the moment.

Clutching the railing around the wooden structure, Crowley focused the next several moments on simply remembering how to breathe. His wide amber eyes stared down at the white knuckle grip against the splintering wood as the sound of ragged breaths assaulted his ears. Eventually, the man was able to calm himself down enough to think through just what he was going to do next.

He couldn’t do this. That much was clear to Crowley. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t climb into that plane, couldn’t take any action that might hurt his angel. On the Eastern front, Crowley had been able to excuse his actions. He had no dog in this fight, had no personal reason to be a part of this war. Like the rest of his classmates from flight school, he had been approached by the German military and offered a position within Der  Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte. It offered decent pay and great benefits, assuming he survived long enough to utilize them, and Crowley had agreed. He hadn’t thought too much about the consequences at the time. Hadn’t realized that when they promised him a war with Russia, that meant a war with England too. Hadn’t expected them to move him to the opposite side of the country in the middle of a war when he was doing perfectly well on the Eastern front.

_ You’re too damn good at your job, _ Crowley thought to himself as he lifted his head to gaze out over the camp. This building, once an old logging facility, had been taken over years ago when all this fighting had begun. Most of the soldiers slept outside in tents housing anywhere from four to twelve of them at once. Crowley had volunteered to set up a tent of his own or join some of the other pilots who had already been assigned sleeping arrangements, but his commanding officer had shot him down, insisting Crowley remain in the building with some of the other officers.

They wanted him to be well rested for his upcoming mission. There were only a handful of pilots in  Der  Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte that were as talented and vital to the war effort as he was. The German forces had done their best to spread them out, to use them to gather as much information as possible in an attempt to help them gain the upper hand in this war. Crowley couldn’t squander his chances at greatness by being forced to sleep amongst the rest of the rabble below, they had said.

He was special.

A soft voice sounded at the edge of his hearing and Crowley turned to his left. There was no one there. The man frowned and took a few steps forward, peeking around the corner of the building to find three men standing side by side on the porch as it wrapped around the entirety of the building. After a few seconds, Crowley recognized one of them as the camp’s highest commanding officer, Generaloberst  Metzger . He was still dressed head to toe in uniform, black boots neatly polished, the shine of dozens of medals littering his chest. This was a man not to be trifled with. 

"Wir haben einen Abtruennigen, Sir ( _ We have a renegade, Sir _ ),” the man beside the general was saying as his gaze looked out over the forest to their left. Crowley’s eyes darted over and, sure enough, he spotted the single silhouette of a man sneaking his way through the outer ring of tents, furtively casting glances over his pack laden shoulder as he made his way towards the line of trees nearly a thousand feet away.

"Ja, das habe ich bemerkt ( _ Yes, I can see that _ ),"  Metzger  responded, his low, rumbling voice sending chills down Crowley’s spine the man could not explain. Not yet, anyway. Watching these men and how they were analyzing the situation filled the pilot with a sense of unease. He had no idea what was about to happen, but Crowley found that he could not look away. It was as if his mind were under a spell, compelled to watch as the scene played itself out to the bitter end he knew must be coming.

"Moechten Sie, dass ich ein paar Maenner ausschicke ihn einzufangen? ( _ Would you like me to send out a couple of men to retrieve him _ ?)" The first man asked again. From his vantage point, Crowley could see there were three men there on the porch, but only  Metzger  and his right hand man were visible. The third man stood off a ways to their left, obscured by the bodies of the other two, completely silent as the other pair talked.

"Nein, das wird nicht noetig sei  _ (No, that will not be necessary) _ ," was the only response. Crowley felt like he was going to be sick. His amber eyes were glued on the renegade man now, watching as he slipped past the final tent and made a run for it, feet flying across the grass as he tried to make it to the relative safety of the forest beyond.

Crowley had never seen a deserter before. He’d heard about them. Several hundred had been caught so far over the past two years and taken to prisons to receive trial, but there hadn’t been much news in regards to what happened to them after the fact.

"Aber Sir, wenn wir jetzt nichts unternehmen werden wir nicht mehr in der Lage sein ihn erneut aufzuspüren. Er wird entkommen. _ (But sir, if we don’t do anything now, we won’t be able to track him down again. He will escape.) _ "

Metzger was silent, but only for a moment. Crowley could feel his heart beating against his chest, rattling against his ribcage as it fought to free itself from the scene unfolding right in front of him.

"Nicht waehrend meiner Wache. _ (Not on my watch) _ "

_ Oh no. _ Suddenly, that sinking, twisting feeling in Crowley’s stomach made perfect sense. His mind screamed at him to look away, to go back inside, to shut away his eyes and his ears so he wouldn’t be forced to see the events that were about to transpire, but Crowley’s brain did not listen. He was fixated on the scene before him, silently screaming at the man in the distance to run, run, _ run _ . Before it was too late.

“Sir?”

"Schaltet ihn aus. Es wird keine Fahnenfluechtigen in meinem Lager geben. _ (Take him out. There will be no deserters in my camp) _ "

There was no hesitation. A single shot echoed through the night, emanating from the third man who had yet to say a word. Time seemed to slow down as Crowley’s eyes traveled from the end of the rifle in a straight line to the deserter as he raced across the field, He was over halfway there by now. Just a few more seconds and he would have been free. 

Suddenly, the man stumbled and Crowley bit back a scream. He urged the former soldier onward, hoping and praying the bullet had simply grazed him. A bit of blood and missing flesh was a small price to pay for freedom such as this. In that moment, everything became clear to him. If this man could make it out alive, so could Crowley. He could run away, escape into the forest, make his way to Switzerland or Spain or some other country that had the right mindset to stay out of this hellish nightmare. He could wait out the fight, try to get word to Aziraphale, to let the man know he was alright. To let his angel know where to find him.

Everything was going to be alright. Crowley believed that in his whole heart. If this man could just escape this horrible fate, then Crowley still had hope that he could find relief too.

And then the man tumbled to the ground and Crowley’s hopes were shattered. Amber eyes stayed trained on the body, silently willing the man to get up. To keep running. To keep fighting, but it was all in vain. He remained motionless, arms and legs splayed against the grass, face turned away from them.

Crowley was certain that if he were to walk across the uneven grass toward the man’s body, if he were to circle around him so he was able to clearly see the man’s face, he would look down to see the empty stare of a soul that was no longer present. He would be faced with the glassy eyes and blank expression that haunted his every waking and sleeping moment. The one that reminded him how fragile life was and how desperate he was to protect it for the one person he loved most, no matter how futile that effort might be.

This was it. There was no escaping this Hell. No running away until the world found a way to get better on its own. No avoiding his mission, no way to ensure that the one being he cared about in all of creation would remain safe. The sinking feeling in Crowley’s stomach and the violent trembling that had seized both of his hands told him the awful truth. Aziraphale was going to die in this war and it was going to be all Crowley’s fault. His worst fears would come to pass.There was nothing Crowley could do to stop it.

He had no choice. Not anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a rough one to write. Several times, I had to take a break and just walk away in order to get the words to flow as I wanted them to. Things will start to get a little better soon, everyone, just hang in there a bit longer.
> 
> Also, shout out to justaXgirl for the translation help! I figured I'd try it out this chapter and see what people thought. There won't be a ton of German communications in this story, but I thought it made the story feel a bit more authentic to have it in there. I hope you all liked it, and hopefully having the translations there next to the original German made sense!
> 
> I feel like I'm constantly thanking you all for being such wonderful readers, but it's true. I honestly can't wait to work on this story (even though it is breaking my heart) because you all keep giving me such lovely feedback :) I love posting new chapters just so I can anxiously wait to read those comments as they come flooding in, so thank you all so much!!!


	10. Part 2: July 12, 1916

They left at dusk, bags packed and strapped to their shoulders, rifles at the ready in case they came across any resistance on the journey to Hardecourt. Normally, from the front lines, the walk to Hardecourt would have been less than two miles. Uncontested, it would have taken them less than an hour.

This wasn’t an uncontested mission. At least, not entirely. There were many moving parts, more than Aziraphale could hope to understand completely. They were marching into enemy territory. Nearly a hundred of them across three separate platoons lead the way, aiming for the northwestern side of the camp. Over the past few days, the Germans had been pushed back from this area by the combined French and British forces, but that didn’t mean there weren’t stragglers left behind. Or worse, scouts placed nearby to alert the enemy of an oncoming attack.

The key to their success, the Major had told him, was in the fighting. Let several days pass by without an interaction and both sides of the war were bound to worry the other was beginning to scheme at something. That wasn’t the case here. The combined French and British forces had mounted an attack earlier that morning. Gunfire had sounded for hours as Aziraphale had been forced to wait back at camp. He could hear it echoing all around him, the noise rising up over the treetops and slinking through the tunnels, leading back to him.

As crazy as it sounded, Aziraphale had _wanted_ to be out there. What use was he here when his countrymen were laying down their lives less than a mile away? He had orders, however, so Aziraphale stayed put, going over and over the conversation he’d had several days prior in his head.

_The first wave of the attack will be an aerial one,_ the Major had explained after handing over Aziraphale’s new orders. _Bombers will fly overhead to target the camps nearby. We’ll strike in the dead of night. They won’t see us coming, not until it’s too late._

It seemed like an unprecedented strategy. One that was aimed, not at wiping out as many of the German soldiers as they could, but rather a very specific set of targets. If the bombers were targeting the soldiers’ location, there was nowhere for the allied foot soldiers to attack from and be safe from the explosions that would be dropping down from the sky above. They would be relying on aerial power alone to do most of the damage to their enemy. At first look, it was a strategy that didn’t make much sense.

_If there are bombers in the area, won’t my men be in the way?_ This was Aziraphale’s first real leadership role in this war. He wasn’t about to just march into battle with no care whatsoever for his section’s well-being. Aziraphale may not have anyone to return home to when this war inevitably ended, but that did not mean these men were in the same situation. They had families that worried over them, friends that they’d left behind. Children that they’d promised to come home to.

_You’ll be on the opposite side of the camp,_ the Major had insisted, as if this minor distance was enough to make Aziraphale comfortable. _Nearly a mile away at the airfield. You will position yourself nearby and keep any of the fighters from taking off. Keep the pilots on the ground until our second wave of bombers arrives. It will be their job to take out both the runway and the planes themselves._

The pilots. They were targeting the pilots - trying to take out Germany’s aerial advantage. It was a bold strategy, one that might actually work, if all the parts synched up properly. The early bombings, if they were able to hit their targets in the dead of night, would scatter the soldiers. From the ground, they couldn’t do much against the attacking aircraft, so the Germans would need to get weapons in the sky, and quickly. Their pilots would waste no time in getting to their aircraft, which is where Aziraphale and the other soldiers would be waiting.

And then, the Major had said something that had stopped Aziraphale’s heart completely inside of his chest. For several awful seconds, the man forgot how to breathe as he listened to the words pouring from his commanding officer’s mouth.

_There’s one pilot in particular that you and your men are specifically to look out for._ _They call him Die Schlange, The Serpent. Second in skills only to The Red Baron, himself. Our intelligence reports say they trucked him all the way over from the eastern front to aid in the effort here. He is a priority target. If you spot him, your orders are to take him out, whatever means necessary._

How many pilots did the German army have? Certainly much less than they had foot soldiers. Several hundred, at most? It was ridiculous to assume that this one pilot could be Crowley, the odds were astronomical. Aziraphale’s heart didn’t listen to reason very often. He immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion.

If Aziraphale’s true mission was to put a bullet in the heart of the man that he loved, he might as well turn himself in as a traitor now. There was no way in all of Heaven or Earth or anyplace else he would be able to do it. The news of Crowley’s death haunted his dreams nearly every night. To think that he might be the one to turn those nightmares into a reality – it made the man sick.

_How will I know which one he is?_ Aziraphale had asked, forcing the tremble from his voice. If, against all odds, Crowley was _here_ in Hardecourt, Aziraphale would surely recognize him. Yes, it had been almost nine years since he’d seen his best friend face to face, but what did that matter when Crowley was the center of all his thoughts? Aziraphale would know him anywhere. The real question wasn’t if he would know which of the pilots Crowley was, but which one he was expected to eliminate.

_His plane,_ was the Major’s only response. _These flash bastards always like to make a statement, don’t they? Think they’re damn near invincible. Well, we’re about to show them how wrong they are. His plane has a black serpent painted on it. Coiled around the tail. You’ll know it when you see it._

Darkness clung to the air around them now as Aziraphale and his section of men crept through the trees towering overhead. Periodically, the man would find himself looking up, peering through the treetops, looking for any glimpse of the starlight hovering above them. Each and every time, his search went unfounded. Summer was in full force, and the normally green leaves were now a black curtain, blocking out all the constellations above.

Aziraphale took in deep, steadying breaths as he focused all his attention on placing one foot in front of another. He did not think about where he was going, or who might be there when he arrived. Over and over again, he tried to convince himself that Crowley was not at Hardecourt. Yes, he’d learned to fly a plane before the war began. Did that mean he automatically became a German pilot? No. Even if he had, the chances that he would be here of all places was astronomical. It was just as likely Crowley had ended up further north along the line. Or, quite possibly, he was all the way across the country, lending a hand with the fight against the Russians.

And what about this Serpent fellow the Major had mentioned? Yes, Crowley had been excited about the prospect of learning how to fly, but flying commercially and becoming an ace pilot in an all-out war were two completely different things. It would be ridiculous to assume that every man who had even an ounce of aerial training had been recruited for the German flying corps.

He didn’t know which alternative was preferable. On the one hand, being up in the air would make Crowley a high priority target. He would be easily spotted and if the allied forces could get their fighters up into the air in time, they would try their very best to shoot him down. He would fall in a rain of gunfire, tumbling from the sky in fire and flames. On the other hand, there was so much violence on the ground. Hundreds and hundreds of men died each and every day in the trenches. Aziraphale didn't know where his beloved might be safer. The ground or the skies.

_Does he know I’m here?_ Aziraphale wondered as the foliage crunched softly beneath his mud-covered boots. They had been pristine once, ages ago when he’d first been issued them. Less than a week in the trenches had changed that. Aziraphale hardly recognized them anymore. _Does he think about me, still, after all this time? Is he wishing this war were over so we could be together again? Has he forgotten me?_

A million questions swirled around in Aziraphale’s heart and not a single one of them had an answer. He did not know. The man did not know if Crowley knew he was serving on the British front lines. He did not know if Crowley was still his friend – if the man still wasted his thoughts on the short time they had spent together. Aziraphale did not know if Crowley still loved him.

He hoped, oh, how he hoped. But all the hoping in the world couldn’t answer his unspoken questions.

“You alrigh’ there, laddy?” a voice asked softly in the night. Aziraphale turned his head to see another man of equal rank looking back at him. He was tall, with dusty red-brown hair and several days-worth of stubble across his cheeks and chin. “Ye look like you’re about ta pass out.”

Aziraphale forced a smile. “Quite alright, Lance-Corporal – “

“Shadwell,” the man interrupted, his Scottish accent shining through. “Lance-Corporal Shadwell at your service.”

“Lance-Corporal Shadwell,” Aziraphale amended, turning his gaze back to the wall of trees ahead of them. “Just lost in thought, I suppose. Preparing myself for what tonight might bring.”

Shadwell continued to walk forward, not once removing his gaze from Aziraphale’s face. For a while, he said nothing, and Aziraphale wondered if there might be something wrong with the man. His face was contorted, eyebrows furrowed to the point that it looked like the man might be in pain.

Before Aziraphale could ask what was wrong, Lance-Corporal Shadwell spoke again, his voice soft in the darkness around them. “No. Nope. I don’ buy it for a second.”

“I’m sorry?” What was this man talking about? Why did he care so much about what Aziraphale was thinking about? There were dozens of other people around them. Why didn’t he wander off and talk to someone else?

“That wasn’ what ye was thinkin’ about.”

So? What did it matter to this man what sort of thoughts occupied Aziraphale’s mind? “I was thinking about a dream I had,” Aziraphale found himself explaining before he realized what was happening. “A nightmare.”

“Was it abou’ witches?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Pardon me?”

Shadwell continued to stare at him, a look of intensity in his eyes. “The nightmares. Any chance they might be abou’ witches?”

Slowly, Aziraphale shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.” Shadwell almost looked disappointed. “Just dreams – nightmares – about losing someone I love.”

Shadwell stopped talking after that, a grim look passing over his face. Each one of them here knew what that fear felt like. Each one of them here had left behind someone at home – a mother or father, siblings, a wife, children, friends – it didn’t matter who. Each one of them knew someone who felt that same fear each and every day. There was nothing left to be said on the subject. No words that could express the darkness that chipped away at their minds and hearts every day that they opened their eyes, squared their shoulders, and went out to face their fates, never knowing if that morning would be their last.

A hush fell over the soldiers and Aziraphale felt his next words crumbling to dust inside his chest. Lights flickered in the distance and Aziraphale halted, hand flying up in a single fist to signal to his men to do the same. There were only a dozen of them under his command, but Aziraphale could feel each and every eye on him as he lead them off through the forest to the left, keeping one eye on the camp lights in the distance. According to the orders he’d been given, the airfield was a mile to the northwest of the camp. It would take them nearly twenty minutes to get into place. Assuming they weren’t spotted by any scouts. Assuming the air strike wasn’t early. Assuming the intelligence reports were even right in the first place.

Aziraphale didn’t care about any of that. He didn’t care about a single thing that could go wrong with tonight’s effort. As he forced himself to continually march forward, heart rattling inside of his chest, the man only had one thought, one hope, one prayer that begged to be heard.

_Please,_ his heart cried out to anyone who might listen. _Please, keep him safe. Please let him come home. I don’t care what happens to me, but please let him make it out of this war alive._

Aziraphale had no way to know if there was a god up there somewhere in the vast expanse of the heavens. He had no way to know if the words he could not say out loud would ever be heard by someone or something who cared. He had no way to be sure that the man he loved would be alright.

In the stillness of the night, as the stars finally peeked through the gaps in the treetops up above, Aziraphale felt an inexplicable peace wash over him. As he gazed up at the twinkling lights, spotting all the familiar constellations he’d learned about all those years ago, Aziraphale thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , everything was going to be alright.

* * *

Crowley had hardly slept in days. How could he when each morning he got into that plane, Crowley could be directly responsible for Aziraphale’s death? How could he sleep when each time he shut his eyes he was reminded of either all that he’d already lost when he left England or all that he could lose with each second this war ticked on?

He should have stayed in England. He should have fought his parents tooth and nail, should have begged and pleaded with his mother to not make him leave. She had family still in the area. Sisters near Edinburgh, cousins in Liverpool. Crowley may not have been able to stay in London, but surely he could have convinced his mother to let him remain at Eton. It was a prestigious school, one that his parents had been thrilled to hear he’d been admitted to. He should have tried harder to stay, but Crowley had been afraid. Afraid his parents would find out about the true reason for his insistence. Afraid he would get Aziraphale in trouble. Afraid he would never be allowed to see his best friend again.

If he had stayed, so many things would be different now. If he had stayed, he would have gone to University in England. He would have stayed by Aziraphale’s side, he would have saved himself so many years of heartache. One after another, wondering if this would finally be the year he would get to see Aziraphale again.

They wouldn’t have been allowed to be together, not out in the open. England, like many other European countries, still held damning views of relationships of a certain nature. Crowley didn’t care. There was no law that had ever been written or could ever be written that could stop him from loving Aziraphale.

If he had stayed, he wouldn’t have to face this terror-inducing nightmare now. If Crowley had stayed in England, he wouldn’t be slowly falling apart from the inside out.

Sleep evaded him, every bite of food he ate tried to crawl back up out of his stomach, burning his throat as it rushed to be deposited on the grass or in the lavatory or wherever else he happened to run when that familiar unpleasant feeling began to roil within him again. Crowley was slowly wasting away to nothing with each passing day. Much more of this, and he might not make it to another morning.

_Maybe that won’t be so bad._ Once again, the man was lying on his back, staring up at the wood paneled ceiling above his bunk as sleep evaded him, ducking for cover to avoid him at every turn. _Maybe if I disappear, Aziraphale will be alright._

The thought was insanity. Crowley knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. Each day that he climbed into that blasted machine, a bit of his soul was chipped away. Each day that he returned unharmed to the air base, his heart turned a shade darker. There was a very real chance that Crowley would escape from this war unscathed. He was one of the best pilots out there. Sure, there was a chance someone could catch him by surprise. There was a chance the opposite side could gang up on him, but one on one? Crowley was not afraid of getting hurt while he was in the skies.

Just because he returned home unscathed, didn’t necessarily mean Crowley would live to see a day beyond the one when this fighting ended. If Aziraphale didn’t make it home too, what was the point?

_Please,_ Crowley found himself praying as he stared at the ceiling, imagining how the stars must be shining brightly overhead in another clear summer’s night. He had no way to know if anyone up there was listening, but the man was at the end of his rope. He had nothing left to lose. Not anymore. _Please, keep him safe. I’ll do anything that you want. I don’t care what happens to me, just don’t you dare let anything happen to Aziraphale. Let him make it home safely. Let him survive this, please._

_He’s the only thing that matters. The only thing that’s ever mattered._

Silence filled the room. Silence and the soft snores of some of the other pilots and officers, trying to get some rest before the sun dawned once more and they were forced to face their fates once more.

Crowley let out a deep sigh, rolling over onto his side as he clutched at the thin blanket covering his form. He forced his thoughts to happier memories. Cold winter days cooped up inside by the roaring fire. Spring afternoons eating partially stale biscuits and swiped apples. Summer evenings lying stomach up underneath the stars.

_Aziraphale,_ he thought with all his might, wishing there was some way for the man to receive his message. _Aziraphale, my angel, I miss you. I love you. More than you could ever know._

It was then that the explosions began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone! I was travelling a lot this weekend and just didn't have a chance to sit down and finish this up for you.
> 
> Now would be the appropriate time to grab onto your seats. Things are about to get intense. 
> 
> See you all again soon! Thanks again for all the love this story is getting. I can't tell you how much I appreciate all the support!


	11. Art: Flieger Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention Everyone!!!!!
> 
> I am so excited :) :) :) Cherokee_wren sent me this lovely picture today that I just had to share with all of you. Thank you so much for this wonderful gift <3 I am touched you felt so inspired by this story to sketch something for it. I absolutely love it!
> 
> This goes as a blanket statement for anything that I write, if you ever feel lead to share something with me that I've inspired, please don't hesitate to do so. I literally have no artistic ability whatsoever. Like, I can't even draw stick figures right, so anything you create, I guarantee I will be impressed by. I could never do something like this in a million years.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy! And I will see you all again with another update soon <3

* * *

_There’s one pilot in particular that you and your men are specifically to look out for._ _They call him Die Schlange, The Serpent. Second in skills only to The Red Baron, himself. Our intelligence reports say they trucked him all the way over from the eastern front to aid in the effort here. He is a priority target. If you spot him, your orders are to take him out._

_These flash bastards always like to make a statement, don’t they? Think they’re damn near invincible. Well, we’re about to show them how wrong they are. His plane has a black serpent painted on it. Coiled around the tail. You’ll know it when you see it._

__


	12. Part 2: July 12, 1916 (Battle)

Crowley was out of his bed in an instant, tugging on his boots and lunging for the gun that lay hanging on a rack upon the wall. He was a pilot by nature, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been trained for combat on the ground too. Every pilot needed to know how to defend themselves, whether they were in the skies or back on earth where the universe had intended for them to be. 

No, Crowley may not spend most of his days with a rifle in hand, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to use one.

He scrambled for the door, holding the gun out before him as he wrenched it open, hearing the thud of several other feet as the men behind him lagged a few seconds behind. An instant later, Crowley had to squeeze his eyes shut as a bright light exploded to his left, sending waves of thunderous noise and heat surging outward from the point of contact. Amber eyes shot towards the sky just as a dark, looming figure passed by overhead, its signature low rumble crying out like a lion’s roar. The vibrations shook Crowley to his very core as his mind struggled to process what was happening.

There was shouting all around, so much that the man couldn’t understand a single word that was being said. Tents were on fire, soldiers were running around like ants amidst a flooding landscape, except the raindrops were bombs, and the flood was a raging fire, spreading from one tent to the next faster than Crowley ever thought possible. 

A low rumbling sounded from above, growing louder with each passing second. Crowley looked to the sky once more, marveling at how calm and serene the heavens could appear when everything around him was so chaotic.

He spotted it, there in the distance. Another bomber, headed straight for them. Crowley’s throat closed over as panic set in. This was it. This was the end of him. He was going to die, right here, right now, in a flash of heat and flame and enormous force.

What had his life even been? What had he done so far with the days he’d been given? What was one good thing Crowley could say about himself - one thing that he’d managed to do that put a little bit of good into the world.

He’d loved Aziraphale. And Aziraphale was good. Aziraphale was the best goddamn human being Crowley had ever met. He was kind, and smart, and thoughtful and generous to a fault. In the brief moments he had to consider his life, Crowley supposed the only thing he regretted was never knowing for sure if his angel felt the same.

_ That doesn’t really matter, _ Crowley thought to himself. Aziraphale knew how Crowley felt about him - how the man would always feel about him. When worse came to worst and he was facing down the last moments of his life as enemy forces unleashed their attacks upon him, the only thing that mattered was that  _ Aziraphale _ knew that he was loved beyond words. Beyond everything. 

The plane flew overhead, dropping the bombs several hundred feet behind him and Crowley breathed out in relief. It was short-lived, however, as more low rumblings sounded nearby. Had they sent the entire fleet of bombers? How many did they have? How was this attack happening now? Hadn’t there just been a huge fight on the front lines earlier this morning? When had they had a chance to come up with an attack of this magnitude? 

And more importantly, how had he not spotted any evidence to suggest this earlier?

Someone, one of the generals, Crowley assumed, shouted at the group of them as the other men in his cabin crowded out onto the wooden porch. With a point of a finger and forceful words, Crowley was off. His legs seemed to have a mind of his own as they flew across the dew-laden grass, heading for the only hope of salvation.

The only way they were going to get out of this alive - the only way to stop the enemy before they could do further damage was to get the fighters in the air. Crowley knew that. His squadron knew that. They had been training for such an event as this. As terrified as he was of his actions and the consequences they might have for his beloved,  _ this  _ was a fight he could win. Aziraphale wasn’t a bomber pilot. Aziraphale didn’t know how to fly a plane. Aziraphael wouldn’t be in danger from him if Crowley hopped into his plane and took to the sky.

He saw it. There, on the horizon, was the runway, stretching the length of a wide open field. A smattering of trees lay scattered about on either side. At one point in time, Crowley supposed there had been trees spaced throughout this area, but the needs of war had far outweighed the trees’ right to keep on living. A runway needed to be built, and they’d been in the way.

Fire spread throughout his legs as the man sprinted toward the collection of aircraft as fast as he could. He used the trees for cover as best he could, hoping that the bombers currently flying overtop the camp would ignore a handful of straggling German soldiers as they raced to get away from the explosions.

Right. Get to the plane. Get it up in the air. Shoot down the bombers. He had a plan. Now, if only he could execute it.

“Scheiss!” Crowley hissed, a bullet ricocheting off the side of one of the aircraft as he approached. He ducked behind the structure, pressing his back up against the cool metal. Where had that blasted shot come from? What idiot was shooting off a gun when the enemy was clearly in the air, not on the ground?

Another shot sounded, sending the man’s heart clambering up his chest and into his throat. Those shots weren’t coming from his side of the plane. They were coming from the opposite side. Who would be shooting at him from the ground on the other side of the landing strip. The only thing out there was miles of tall grass and a few dozen trees.

_ The enemy was here on the ground _ . The sudden realization hit him like a brick wall. They had  _ planned  _ this. They had set the bombers up to fly over the camp, dealing the most amount of damage, but they had strategically snuck foot soldiers in to keep the German pilots from countering the attack. With Crowley and his squadron on the ground, the men he’d left behind were like sitting ducks

What was he supposed to do? If he tried to climb into the plane now, Crowley would surely be shot down. But if he stayed here, the fighting back at camp would be a massacre. Were there any other alternatives? Was this his chance to try and run away? To escape into the forest? No. Surely, even if his commanding officers didn’t have their guns pointed at his retreating back, the enemies just on the other side of his airplane would.

A low rumble sounded in the distance and, once again, Crowley felt his stomach leap into his throat. He breathed in, trying in vain to calm his pounding heart. The planes were just transiting over them. They were headed to the campsite, not this location. Why would the enemies bomb the airfield with their own men so close by. If soldiers from the opposite side of the war were shooting at him, they had to be less than a few hundred yards away. There was no way anyone in their right mind would drop a series of explosives within that kind of distance from their own soldiers.

Crowley kept telling himself that, but the way those planes banked. The way their shadowy shapes turned in the sky, lining up in perfect formation to fly over-top of him and the other pilots. It made him wonder.

Was this really going to be the end? It most certainly looked that way.

One final time, Crowley looked up at the twinkling sky and prayed. _Please keep him safe. He's my everything. I love him more than I ever thought possible. I don't care what happens to me, but please. Save him._

Like always, there was no response.

* * *

Invisible projectiles rained down from the sky, lighting up the ground in a blaze of fire and smoke. Even from his position outside the airfield, Aziraphale could see the bright, blazing lights, so much stronger than the twinkling balls of fire he knew were burning millions upon millions of miles above them. He could hear shouts drifting up into the air, carried over toward him and his men on the far western side of the campsite. Soldiers were beginning to panic. That either meant their plan was working and they had begun to scatter the enemy, or the German soldiers would band together in the chaos around them and fight back.

Aziraphale was hunkered down behind a small grove of trees in the middle of the wide open field. They felt more like bushes than trees, if he was being honest. The branches were wide and full of thick green leaves, obscuring him completely from sight so long as he remained crouched on the tips of his toes. If Aziraphale were to stand up, he would be exposed from the neck up.

More shouting came - words that were gruff and harsh and most definitely not in a language Aziraphale understood. The man’s hands tightened around the barrel of his gun as blue eyes peeked outward through the green foliage, trying their best to get a proper view of the situation at hand.

Men were running towards them, reaching the top of the nearest hill, just several dozen yards from the aircraft. Without a word, Aziraphale lifted up his rifle feeling the men beside him do the same. The figures were still fairly far away, too far for his weapon to be entirely accurate, but not too far to prevent the man from doing his job.

With a soft breath, a single finger slipped easily into the trigger, as if Aziraphale had been made to do this and only this. His eyes honed in on the shadows approaching, watching as the enemy soldiers thundered down the grassy slope, their destination in sight.

Bullets rained down upon them. Aziraphale fired one shot after another after another. Some of the soldiers fell. Others hunkered down behind the metal planes whose silhouettes stood out against the starry backdrop, the soft orange glow of newly formed fires still visible in the distance. 

The goal wasn’t necessarily to kill all the pilots. The goal was to keep them on the ground until the second wave of bombers arrived. Most of the new planes would continue onto the camp, but two of them would unload their wares here. They would damage as many planes and pilots as possible, and the battle would be won. 

Of course, there was still the matter of Aziraphale’s special mission. There was still the question of how to go about eliminating the Serpent. From here, it was impossible to see any sort of details on the enemy’s faces. Not that seeing who they were would have any affect on his actions. Aziraphale hadn’t been given a description of the pilot he was searching for. Just the plane. The plane with the serpent winding around the tail. It shouldn’t be that difficult to spot.

Except it was dark outside. Except there was ammunition rocketing across the field from both sides. Except Aziraphale could barely keep his heart thudding at a steady pace, let alone concentrate any of his surroundings except the bullets flying directly toward him, seeking out supple flesh to tear into. 

A high-pitched, screaming whistle sounded just behind him. Aziraphale’s heart lodged itself in his throat as he turned his attention toward the sound and the great, big plane that had just flown by overhead. Another followed closely behind, with several more in the distance.

The second wave had arrived. They needed to move,  _ now. _

Without another moment’s hesitation, Aziraphale gave the signal. “Fall back,” he hissed to the squadron of men that had followed him into battle. “Give it some distance for the bombs to fall. Then rush back in to finish the job. Make sure no aircraft can leave the ground.”

The men followed his orders, but Aziraphale did not. He stayed put. Watching as the second and third planes flew by overhead. Small objects fell from underneath the last one, erupting with fantastic force as they struck the ground. Over the roar of noise, Aziraphale thought he heard shouts of shock and even fear, but it was difficult to tell above the chaos.

Aziraphale turned to look over his shoulders at the bright night sky above them. The stars twinkled in the heavens, every inch of constellation on display. For several moments, nothing happened as the man continued to gaze upward, trying hard not to remember the moment in time where his heart currently longed to be.

With no more of their bombers in sight, the man tightened the grip on his gun and surged forward. This could very well be the end of him, Aziraphale realized as he snuck up the hill, eyes wide as he looked for any sign of movement. A shift of shadow, a silhouette against the plane wreckage in front of him. Not all of the aircraft had been damaged by the attack, but there were several that currently lay in multiple pieces along the runway. All in all, they hadn’t done so bad.

As Aziraphale approached the enemy airstrip, his gun at the ready in front of him, his blue eyes spotted his target. There, further down to his left, away from the center of the first strike, was the plane.  _ The _ plane. The coil of serpent was so obvious, the darkest black against the solid metal exterior. Aziraphale shifted course, keeping his eyes trained for any movement. Any sign of a soldier who had made it out of that attack alive. 

Underneath the great feats of engineering, through the gaps between the belly and the earth, Aziraphale could see some places where bodies had fallen. He could smell the stench of smoke and sulfur mixed with blood and bits of burnt flesh. A few years ago, the sight would have made him ill. Now, the man hardly noticed it, except to assure himself that they were, in fact, dead. That he had nothing to fear.

Closing the distance between himself and the plane, Aziraphale realized that the serpent was not just any old black garden snake. There were hints of red blended in with the darkness. Thin, crimson scales on the underbelly of the marvelous creature, scales that almost seemed to ripple with movement as the moonlight shifted with each step Aziraphale took.

A soft, low rumble sounded at the edge of his hearing, and the man whirled around, heart in his throat. He’d thought the attacks were over, but there was no mistaking that sound. A lone bomber was making its way toward the air base - right toward the point where he was currently standing.

_ Shit.  _

Suddenly, a voice sounded behind him, and Aziraphale whirled around. The threat of an explosive death still lingered above, drawing closer and closer every second, but if there was an enemy soldier nearby, a bullet to the heart would do him in much quicker.

There was no one there. Not that Aziraphale could immediately see. He clutched his gun and pressed himself up against the nearest aircraft, eyes darting over to try and peer through the vast space between one plane and the next.

A figure, shrouded in darkness, stood pressed up on the other side of the serpentine plane. Aziraphale’s eyes drifted toward him. He could not see the man’s face. Could not see anything about him, really, except the hat that had been pulled tightly over his head and the pair of goggles resting gently against the top of his chest.

_ Pilot goggles. _

Before Aziraphale could react. Before he could lift his gun to defend himself, before he could make a single move to take out the man who was very likely the target he’d been sent to find, two hands flew up to frame the man’s face and a single word flew from his lips. It was a word Aziraphale hadn’t expected to understand. A word that Aziraphale hadn’t expected to mean so much. A word that Aziraphale hadn’t heard in a very long time.

“Angel!”

_ No _ , it couldn’t be. Not here. Not now. Aziraphale shifted slightly, taking a step forward. Light from somewhere nearby flared and he was able to make out a brief flash of golden eyes and a single lock of red hair before the entire world erupted into smoke and flames.

* * *

“Angel!”

The cry ripped desperately from Crowley’s throat as he saw the shadow of the plane soar over top of them, its load already spent. Time seemed to slow down as golden-brown eyes shifted from the heavens down to the man standing before him. He’d changed so much over the past nine years. His face had narrowed a bit. He was covered from head to toe in dirt and grime and dust. His shoulders were broad and strong and his hands...rough and calloused from the years of battle.

And yet, Aziraphale hadn’t changed at all. He had the same, soft blue eyes that shone like sapphires even when surrounded by the inky blackness of the night. He had the same tight golden curls atop his head, poking out from the metal helmet now strapped across his chin. He had the same gentle demeanor. Even though he was holding a gun firmly in his hands, Crowley did not fear for his life. In fact, he felt no fear at all. Just a wave of overwhelming relief and joy and love.

Aziraphale was here. Aziraphale was  _ alive. _

Aziraphale was in danger.

_ No. _ This wouldn’t do at all. Crowley was  _ not _ about to watch his angel burn to a crisp right in front of his eyes. Not after all these years apart. Not after his prayers had finally been answered.

The man was moving, feet pounding against the dirt ground before he even consciously made the decision. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide upon him, full of shock and fear and something else Crowley could not place. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have recognized the emotion if given the chance, but Crowley could barely focus on anything else in that moment besides running as fast as he could to his angel’s side. 

He slammed himself into the other man’s body, throwing them both to the ground, out of the direct line of fire as bombs struck the ground all around them, erupting into searing heat and flames. Bits of metal shrapnel flew outward in all directions, striking several planes nearby and punching holes in their outer shell and wings, digging down deep into the core of the mechanical device. Crowley swung a leg over Aziraphale’s form quickly, using his body to shield the man currently trapped beneath him. 

In any other circumstance, the man might have been more than a little flustered by their current position. He’d dreamed about Aziraphale in a similar position more times than he could count. Of course, in his dreams, there was a little less fear in both of their hearts. A little less fear, and a little more...something else.

“Crowley?” the achingly familiar voice brought tears to the man’s amber eyes. He rapidly blinked them away, pulling himself back to the reality of the moment as he tried to ignore the sting of pain in his left shoulder. Now that the worst of the attack was over, Crowley pulled back a little, lifting his head and scanning the area around them. Several of the nearby planes were on fire, and could potentially be in danger of exploding further, should the flames spread to their fuel tanks.

They needed to get out of here. Quickly, quietly, without drawing any attention to themselves.

But, oh, how Crowley  _ wished _ he could stay in this moment for a little while longer. He had dreamed of touching his angel for so long, and now Aziraphale was here with him. Aziraphale was alive, and for the most part, Aziraphale was safe.

Crowley would do whatever was necessary to keep it that way.

“What are you doing here?”

Crowley rolled his eyes.  _ Honestly. _ What kind of a question was that. “Stopping  _ you  _ from getting into trouble.”

As far as he could tell, the soldiers that had been shooting at him earlier were gone now. They must have retreated with the first wave of bombers that struck the air field. Why Aziraphale hadn’t went with them, Crowley didn’t know. He was thankful for it, or he would be, assuming he found a way to get them both out of here alive.

“Come on,” Crowley murmured, biting back a hiss of pain as he clambered up onto first his knees and then his feet, holding out a hand for Aziraphale to take. The bomb seemed to have missed his angel completely, but Crowley would not be walking away unscathed. Nothing felt permanently damaged, but he would need to take a look at himself before the night was over. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Aziraphale blinked, his hand still wound tightly around Crowley’s. The man slowly lifted both of them to a standing position, amber eyes already searching for a way out. “Get out of here?”

A soft sigh escaped Crowley’s lips as he tried to ignore his aching heart. Wasn’t Aziraphale happy to see him? Didn’t he want to run off with Crowley so they could be safe? So they could be together? Maybe, after all this time, Aziraphale didn’t feel the same way he used to. Maybe Aziraphale didn’t love him anymore.

Whatever the case may be, they couldn’t stay here any longer. At Crowley’s simple nod, the man opposite him seemed to understand. Blue eyes took in the fire and scraps of metal and destruction all around them and seemed to make a final decision. Crowley felt a gentle squeeze upon his hand, causing his heart to leap inside his chest as his beloved angel looked over at him with that soft gaze, so full of trust, Crowley thought he might just burst.

Hand in hand, without another word spoken between them, the men raced into the night. Their feet carried the silently towards the forest where maybe, just maybe, they might be able to find some solitude for just a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, everyone. I am SO sorry for the delay on this chapter. My last semester of grad school started a couple of weeks ago and my husband and I are starting the building process on our new house and all of my free time has gone out the window! Please forgive me <3
> 
> I'll try to be better about posting updates for you all, but I make no guarantees. All I can promise is that this story will not be abandoned, and you will get your happy ending in time. Thank you so much for your lovely feedback, your support, and above all, your patience! I love you all :)


	13. Part 2: July 12, 1916 (The Farmhouse)

He was dreaming.

There was no other way to describe what was happening all around him - the explosions still going on in the distance, the faint echo of screams on the horizon. The feel of a hand wrapped firmly in his own as they hurried through the pitch-black forest, each step that they took carrying them further away from the chaos and hopefully closer to a moment where they might find a bit of comfort and respite.

Aziraphale could barely think straight as he stumbled ahead, holding onto the other man’s hand with all his might. His mind was frazzled, heart lodged so tightly in his throat that he was sure he would suffocate before long. He’d been in plenty of battles before, had his fair share of brushes with death, but never anything so intense before. Never something filled with so much light and heat and a noise so loud it had rattled the earth beneath his feet and the bones within his skin.

He needed to sit down. He needed to stop and remind himself how to breathe and think instead of just following blindly wherever he was lead. But where could he go? He was in the heart of enemy territory, his men scattered to the wind, having no idea if he was heading in the direction of home or further into the darkness of the enemy’s lair.

There, through the last layer of trees and down the hill a little ways was what appeared to be an old, abandoned farmhouse. Old, because the shingles had been half ripped off the roof and the house looked like it hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint in centuries. Abandoned because of the giant gaping hole on one side, surrounded by the singed remains of wood and plaster.

It wasn’t much, but it would be enough for tonight. It would be a place for Aziraphale to rest. To lay down his gun, take off his helmet and get a few hours of sleep, to try and calm his hummingbird heart. In the morning, things would look better. In the morning, he could focus on finding his way home. 

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley murmured, his hand still fixed firmly around Aziraphale’s own. “We gotta keep moving.”

Aziraphale wanted to protest, wanted to pull his hand from the man walking out in front of him, wanted to stop them both in their tracks and just...be in this moment. How could Crowley be here, after all this time? How could he be walking beside Aziraphale, holding onto his hand? After so many years apart, how was it possible that Crowley was with him now? That he was safe and alive and  _ real _ ?

He didn’t let go, however, as they approached the final tree line. How could he when doing so would cause his beloved to drift away? Aziraphale had let go once years ago and had lost his best friend for nearly a decade. He could not afford to make the same mistake a second time.

“Wait,” Aziraphale cautioned, heart thudding in his throat as he tugged against Crowley’s hand. The taller man winced, glancing away from him as a pair of bright amber eyes gazed out at the farmland before them. “You can’t just walk out into the open, Crowley.”

The man turned back around, flashing a sly grin that made Aziraphale go weak at the knees. “Sure I can, angel.” From the opposite side of his body, Crowley revealed a pitch black handgun. “That’s what this bad boy is for.”

There it was again.  _ Angel _ . Did this mean that the man standing beside him, holding onto Aziraphale’s hand for dear life might still care for him? Did Aziraphale dare to hope that Crowley’s affections were still as true as that fateful summer’s night? Or was the name simply a habit that had been maintained for so long that Crowley didn’t know how to call him anything else.

“Please,” the blonde-haired man scoffed, clenching his teeth as he finally mustered the courage to release Crowley’s hand. He took a step forward, swinging his rifle over his shoulder so it pointed outward in front of the pair. Aziraphale’s backpack still lay heavy on his shoulders, but by two years into the war, he was used to the weight. “Allow me.”

Cautiously, silently, the two men crept down the grassy slope toward the house. Aziraphale kept his eyes peeled for any sign of movement, a flash of moonlight off pieces of metal that had no right to be here. To his relief, there was nothing. Not a footstep. Not a flash of gunpowder or sound of a gun firing. Not a single thing halted their advance as they crept past an orchard of felled trees that had been withered for so long they’d never even gotten a chance to blossom this year. Past the empty barn where Aziraphale imagined several cows once called home. Past the pile of rubble that was likely an old horse stable before it had been reduced to nothing by the same thing that had almost killed them tonight.

“Do you think this was your side, or mine?” the blonde man asked Crowley quietly as he reached the front entrance to the old house. The door was shut mostly, but at a quick glance, Aziraphale could see that the hinges were bent and the frame splintered up the side. A sure sign of a forced entry at some point over the course of the last two years. Not that it mattered much, since a good third of the house had been blasted open on the other side. 

“Impossible to tell,” Crowley murmured, taking the lead, his gun out in front of him. “Doesn’t much matter whose fault it was. The damage has been done either way.”

Both men took a step inside. Just as expected, the interior of the house was as decimated as the exterior. Everything of value had been stripped away, leaving only fragments of wallpaper and old hooks where picture frames used to hang. The furniture was mostly missing except an assortment of broken chars, a flower patterned sofa off to their right whose cushions had been upturned and slashed open, their stuffing strewn across the room, and a single, dust covered rug .

Crowley motioned for Aziraphale to walk the other way around the first floor and the man nodded his head in return. Slowly, he crept around the side of the staircase, picking his way across bits of wood and shingles and all manner of other bits that had come raining down from above. Only once they cleared the area, could they take a moment to breathe. Only once they were sure it was safe could the two men talk.

“There’s no one here,” Crowley murmured as he returned to the sitting room and the one scrap of the previous household that had been left behind. Aziraphale murmured his consent, having checked similarly around the dining room and crumbled kitchen. There was not another soul around on the whole property. “No food or supplies either. I hope you’ve got stuff with you. They don’t give us pilots fancy bags to lug around with us.”

Aziraphale smiled and slipped his bag off his back, leaning it up against the wall with a soft thud. From within it, he pulled out a single torch which he immediately lit and placed on the ground, wedging it between a rather large crack in one of the floorboards so it stood up straight, casting a warm glow throughout most of the room. Glancing up with a soft smile on his face, his heart slowly beginning to calm down, Aziraphale’s eyes drifted over to his friend’s face first, allowing himself to finally feel the warmth and comfort those features had always made him feel whenever they had appeared in his dreams. 

Then, slowly but surely, the blue eyes drifted downward to the black leather coat still draped over Crowley’s form. To the goggles that rested against the hollow of his pale throat, down the line of brass buttons leading down to his dirt covered trousers, tucked neatly into knee-high dark leather boots. 

Moving back up, Aziraphale’s eyes fell to the couch and the faded floral pattern, pink roses with wide green leaves and streaks of red that - 

Streaks of  _ fresh _ red color that could only be one thing.

_ Blood. _

Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat as he rapidly closed the distance between them, falling to the ground beside the couch where Crowley currently sat, amber eyes half closed with exhaustion. He must have pieced the couch back together, because the stuffing had vanished from sight, and the half-filled cushions now sat comfortably underneath the red-haired man's semi-conscious form.

“You’re hurt,” Aziraphale murmured, trying desperately to keep his voice from breaking with emotion. How had this happened?  _ When _ had this happened? And why hadn’t he stopped to notice before?

“The bomb.” Realization dawned in his eyes as he remembered the explosion of force, the searing heat and the startling, yet comforting presence of a body straddling his own, arching overtop of him as he lay stunned against the dusty ground, protecting him from harm. “You - you saved me. And you’re hurt. Because of me.”

Amber eyes fluttered open and Crowley moved to sit up. Quickly, without thinking, Aziraphale’s hand rose up to steady him. He gently slid up on the couch beside his friend, blue eyes shimmering with tears he would not allow to fall.

“Don’ be ridiculous,” Crowley muttered, hissing in pain as he shifted his arm too far to the side. “You weren’t the one flying that plane. Can’t have been you who did this.”

Aziraphale’s heart warmed at the thought of Crowley trying to make him feel better, when the other man was the one in pain. He’d been so shocked to see his friend that Aziraphale’s mind had thought to focus on anything else. Thinking back, Crowley has acted quite heroically. He has heard the bomb coming when Aziraphale had not and instead of running away, he had rushed to try and get Aziraphale to safety, and when he could not, he had put his own body in the way to protect Aziraphale.

_ Gods,  _ how he loved this man.

“Right,” the golden haired man demanded, slipping right back into his training. He had a wounded soldier and he would be damned if he sat here all doe-eyed and did nothing about it. “Jacket off. Shirt too, while you’re at it, if you can manage.”

If the situation were any different, Aziraphale might have laughed out loud at the look of shock that passed over Crowley’s face in that moment. The man stiffened beside him, eyes going wide as the rest of his body stilled. Even his chest had stopped the rhythmic rising and falling Aziraphale was so accustomed to seeing. And was that a hint of a blush dusting the man’s cheeks? Or a manifestation of Aziraphale’s wishful thinking?

“You - “ the voice was soft and a bit gravelly, sending a thrill of energy throughout Aziraphale’s entire body. He clenched his teeth and furrowed his eyebrows, trying to concentrate on the task at hand and  _ not _ how their close proximity was starting to affect him. “You want me to take my shirt off?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “So I can look at the  _ wound _ , Crowley,” he teased, ignoring the flush of color likely rising to his own round cheeks. “I have medical supplies with me, unlike you. Let me try and fix you up.”

Crowley did not argue. Without another word, he slid off his jacket, completely riddled with holes where the shrapnel had pierced through the tough leather exterior. Underneath, most of the man’s shirt was still clean. The only traces of blood Aziraphale could see were streaked along his left sleeve, reaching all the way from the crook of his elbow up to the back of his shoulder. 

The man winced in pain as he lifted the tattered shirt up over his head too, exposing his chest to the cool nighttime air. Aziraphale leaned in closer to examine the wounds, noticing how tiny bumps of gooseflesh littered the pale skin. There were several angry red cuts peppering Crowley’s arm, streaks of drying blood dribbling down the length of it. None of them looked especially deep, for which Aziraphale was immeasurably grateful, and with a brief glance at the rest of Crowley’s firmly defined torso, it appeared that only his arm had been hit at all.

Without a word, Aziraphale leaned down to rummage through his bag for his medical kit. He would need several things to patch his friend up. A pair of tweezers to get the metal bits out, some alcohol to disinfect the wound, and a long strip of gauze to bandage him all up. Just as he’d expected, everything was in the first place he looked and Aziraphale hurried to set it all out on the couch beside him, keeping the clean gauze resting gently in his lap to use at the very end.

“Here,” Aziraphale murmured softly, “let me see your arm.”

Crowley shifted toward him, the torch Aziraphale had lit casting light on the smattering of bloody marks. Not a word was said between them as both men gazed at each other for a moment, eyes dancing in the firelight before Aziraphale finally turned away to the job at hand.

It was a long and tedious task, but Aziraphale worked at it with steady hands, removing each piece of metal one by one, cleansing the wound as best he could, and bandaging it up when he was finished. He had been trembling before, but now that Crowley was in his care, Aziraphale found that his fingers were dexterous and precise as they danced across the pale, freckled skin, wrapping the white gauze tightly around the affected area of his friend’s arm. Heat rose to the man’s cheeks as he kept his fixed on the narrow, but still very well-defined shoulder in front of him. This close, Aziraphale could stop and count every single freckle that dusted its surface. He found that he wanted to stay in this moment as long as such a task would take. He wanted to give his eyes the chance to roam over more of Crowley’s form, wanted to take in every inch of exposed skin. Wanted to know every hair on the man’s head, every angle and curve of his body. But such things were inappropriate. Not only were they against the law, they were an extreme breach of the trust Crowley had placed in him.

Before he pulled away, Aziraphale allowed himself one quick glance at the man’s back. Just to make sure he hadn't missed anything important, the man told himself. To his surprise, he wasn’t met with simply more exposed skin. There was something there - some dark, shadowy shape across Crowley’s spine, but at this angle, the shadows in the room obscured too much of whatever it was for Aziraphale to properly identify it. An old wound that had healed incorrectly? Dirt and grime from the ordeal they'd just gone through? It was impossible to tell. 

“There,” the blonde man murmured, tucking the end of the gauze underneath and out of the way so the bandage wouldn’t come unraveled. “You’re all patched up.” He sat back a little ways away, still trying to keep his eyes fixed on Crowley’s face and not the tantalizing skin of his neck or chest.

And then, Crowley angled his body back away from Aziraphale and the shadowy black marks across both his front and back suddenly made sense. It was a tattoo. A tattoo of a very large, beautiful, shimmering black and red snake, coiling from the base of Crowley’s spine all the way around his torso, back up under his arm and over his uninjured shoulder where the head rested just beneath his collar bone.

_ They call him Die Schlange, The Serpent. Second in skills only to The Red Baron, himself. _

No. It couldn’t be, could it. Aziraphale’s heart stilled within his chest as his blue eyes danced over the serpentine form flickering with the dull candlelight still emanating from the floor beside them. Back in his lap, the man’s hands began to tremble once more as a wave of dread washed over him, seeping into every crevice of his entire body.

_ Our intelligence reports say they trucked him all the way over from the eastern front to aid in the effort here. He is a priority target. If you spot him, your orders are to take him out, whatever means necessary. _

Crowley was The Serpent. Crowley was the ace pilot who had secured so many victories for the enemy in the other half of the war.  _ Crowley _ was the man he’d been sent to kill.

“Thank you, Aziraphale.”

The sentiment was murmured so softly between them, so gently and filled with warmth, that Aziraphale found himself looking up reflexively, his previous thoughts completely vanishing from his mind. Almost immediately, his eyes locked with Crowley’s and the heart that had previously frozen with the realization that his Crowley was the one he’d been tasked to eliminate, started up once more with a rhythmic flutter.

Neither one of them moved for a very long time. It was almost as if each one were trapped by the other’s gaze, not daring to look away even for a second. Fearful that if they did, the other one might vanish from sight forever.

“It’s good to see you again,” Aziraphale finally found himself saying, softly, almost hoarsely as he tried to remember how to speak amidst the intense beating of his own heart. It had been so long since he’d heard from Crowley. Aziraphale’s heart ached at the memory of the last letter he’d sent, in the midst of all the pre-war confusion, asking if the man and his family were ok. Not a single word was heard in return, and for a while, Aziraphale had feared the worst. He had hoped and prayed and convinced himself over and over that everything would be alright, but this was the first time any of those words actually rang with some semblance of truth.

The man could have cried with joy, if he weren’t so afraid that everything had changed. Aziraphale still loved Crowley - he loved the man with his whole heart, with everything that he was, but did Crowley feel the same? Were Crowley’s affections still as true as they had been when they’d both been in that strange in-between time, walking the thin border between boyhood wonder and the freedom that came with adulthood? Or had they faded with time, as the sun eventually faded away from the evening sky? Did Crowley’s heart still beat alongside Aziraphale’s, or had he found someone else? A rapid glance down to the man’s hands currently folded on his lap told him that Crowley wasn’t married. Or, at least, he wasn’t wearing a ring. But what did that matter? Anthony Crowley was an attractive, charismatic, kind-hearted man, even if he chose to hide that last aspect more often than not. He could have anyone in the world that he wanted.

Aziraphale was foolish to hope that his friend might have spent all these years alone, holding onto a faint sliver of hope that they might one day be reunited.

A soft smile appeared on Crowley’s face in the flickering candlelight. His eyes reflected almost a molten gold color as the man licked his lips and turned to face Aziraphale head on. Shadows engulfed half of his face as the lamp light was blocked out, but the golden haired man could still see every detail etched into his skin. Every crease of worry, every line of fear he was trying so desperately to hold back.

“I think that may be a bit of an understatement,” he teased, causing butterflies to erupt in Aziraphale’s stomach. In his lap, Crowley’s hands shifted, almost as if they were going to reach out and touch the blonde haired man. The breath stilled in Aziraphale’s lungs as his gaze flickered down to Crowley’s lap, watching with nervous excitement as the hands lifted up, almost to immediately fall back down, right alongside Aziraphale's hopeful heart. “I’ve thought of nothing but you every day for the last nine years, Angel.”

“You have?” the question was soft, timid, Aziraphale not daring to speak it any louder, for fear his heart might finally give into the hope he’d been keeping at bay for so long.

“Of  _ course, _ ” Crowley insisted, voice thick with emotion. The same emotion that now coursed through every vein, every artery, every capillary in Aziraphale’s entire body. The red haired man shifted in his seat, firelight dancing off his bare chest, illuminating the blood-red scales of the snake coiling around him. Heat pooled in Aziraphale’s fingertips and arms and chest, slowly making its way down the rest of his body and the man internally slapped himself. _Good lord,_ this was not the time for such thoughts. “I thought that much would have been obvious based off my last letter.”

Letter? What letter was Crowley talking about? The last letter he’d received from his friend had been a trivial one. Something about how tedious his current job was, but how he was hoping things might change over the next few months. What did that have to do with Aziraphale?

Crowley must have noticed his confusion, because his face immediately fell. A sharp breath was heard, amber eyes suddenly reflecting much more of the flickering candlelight than it had been moments before.

“You didn’t get my letter?” He sounded so raw, voice filled with such pain. Aziraphale wanted to reach out to him, to console him, to wrap the man up in his arms and never let him go. “I - I sent it to you that summer, right before the war started. Telling you I was alright. Telling you - ”

The sound of his voice cut off abruptly as sorrow threatened to overwhelm him. With a sudden surge of bravery, Aziraphale reached out and took Crowley’s hand in his, causing the man to look up at him with wide eyes. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as the man fought to keep himself in check. Aziraphale, too, was fighting a battle with himself - one that involved keeping his eyes fixed on his friend’s face and not the very appealing, very exposed pale skin of his tattooed chest. 

“Telling me what?” Aziraphale prompted, giving the hand a gentle squeeze. He almost expected Crowley to pull away. Expected him to see the love pouring out of Aziraphale in that moment and realize what was happening. He steeled himself for the rejection.  _ I’m sorry, Angel, I just don’t feel that way anymore. I’ve found someone else. We can’t, it’s not right. You and I - we’d never work out. You know that as well as I do. Think of what everyone will think, what our families would say. We can't do this. _

Instead, Crowley squeezed his hand back just as tightly and shifted another minuscule amount closer on the old, tattered couch where they sat. Once again his soft amber gaze fell to Aziraphale’s face and he said the words Aziraphale had only ever dared to dream about.

“Telling you that I loved you.”

All breath from Aziraphale’s lungs exited in a single ‘whoosh’ of air. Blue eyes flew open wide as he stared at the face that had once been so familiar to him - that was  _ still _ so familiar, even after all this time. Sure, it was a little older, hair a little shorter, a hint of auburn stubble across his jaw and cheeks where there had once been only smooth skin. Even still, it was still unmistakably Crowley’s face. The face he had dreamed about for nearly a decade.

“You what?”

Jaw clenched, face hard, but with eyes softer than Aziraphale had ever seen, Crowley repeated the words that the blonde haired man had been dreaming of for as long as he could remember.

“I love you Aziraphale. I never stopped. I want you just as much now as I wanted you then. More so, now, in fact. Now that I know what it feels like to lose you. I knew we were about to go to war - that we’d be on opposite sides, and I wanted - I tried to tell you - I just wanted you to know the truth about how I feel for you. I thought you knew. This whole time, I didn’t know if the feelings were returned, but I was so sure that at least you knew how I felt. I’m so sorry.”

Silence fell between the pair, the only source of light coming from the lamp still situated on the floor beside them. The orange glow seemed to spread outward in a warm blanket around the pair, washing over their skin before coalescing directly in Crowley’s eyes and the single bead of moisture that was now trickling down his cheek.

Aziraphale didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t remember how words were supposed to work or which ones would even be appropriate in a time like this. How was he supposed to express this sudden, intense joy that had entered his heart? How was he supposed to lend words to the fact that his every wish had finally been made true in that moment? There were no words to describe this overwhelming tidal wave of emotion - of love and hope and joy - that was coursing through him, threatening to drag him under. No words to explain how every synapse in his entire body was firing at a lightning pace, causing his heart to rocket around in the cage of his chest and electricity to buzz in his fingertips and toes and the tops of his cheeks and neck and everywhere else.

There was nothing to be said. Not in this most precious of moments. Not here, where he had everything he’d ever wanted finally within his reach.

So Aziraphale did the next best thing. When all words failed and sound no longer rang through the air between them, choosing instead to get caught in his throat as it closed with emotion, there was only one thing to do.

He leaned forward, placing a palm gently against Crowley’s freckled cheek, and drew him into a kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! These two are back together <3 I hope this reunion was everything you all could have wanted. 
> 
> This next chapter will likely take a little while longer to get to you all. There will be some smut, and as it is my first time writing anything of that nature, I'm going to have a few extra eyes look it over before I share the scene with all of you lovely readers. If smut isn't your thing, don't worry! I'll be sure to tell you which parts to skim over.
> 
> Until next time :) thank you all once again for your wonderful support. Having you all as readers is making writing this story so much more enjoyable for me <3


	14. Part 2: July 12, 1916 (Night)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Just a heads up, this chapter is the reason for the 'E' rating. It was requested by several people on twitter, so I did my best. Seeing as I've never written anything of this nature before, I enlisted some help. A huge shout-out to Get_Wrexed and Jamgrl for beta reading this chapter. I really appreciated you both!!
> 
> If you're not a big fan of smut, feel free to skip this chapter. You won't be missing any major plot points.

Fire spread instantly throughout Aziraphale’s entire body at the deep groan that emerged from Crowley’s mouth as their lips pressed together. They were soft and warm and with a brief flicker of his tongue against them, Aziraphale could taste the barest hints of smoke and sweat and something that was altogether entirely  _ Crowley _ .

The other man melted into him, pressing his bare chest up against Aziraphale as arms slithered around his shoulders, drawing him closer. Aziraphale put up no resistance, allowing one of his hands to trace down the bare flesh of Crowley’s side while the other one remained firmly planted on the man’s cheek. He could feel the vibrations underneath his fingertips signaling Crowley was trembling and Aziraphale immediately pulled back, face flushed, body burning at the brief contact. He had dreamed of this moment for so damn  _ long,  _ and he was finally here. Crowley was safe. Crowley was alive. Crowley  _ loved _ him. 

“Are you cold?” the man whispered in the space between them, his hot, gasping breaths still dancing across the skin of Crowley’s parted lips. “Your shirt wasn’t that badly damaged. It’s just over there - “

He was cut off by Crowley leaning forward and planting another kiss against him with so much force he nearly toppled the both of them backward onto the couch. Aziraphale caught them at the last second, using one hand to grip the edge of the seat while the other one lifted to caress the side of his friend’s neck.

“Don’t you dare,” the man growled deeply in his throat in a tone that went straight to Aziraphale’s trousers. He bit back a moan as he kissed Crowley’s lips again and again and again, longingly, lovingly, languidly. He kissed Crowley and breathed in his scent and simply cherished the moment until he felt fingers against the front of his uniform, shakily starting to undo the buttons of his jacket.

_ Oh my. _ They were actually doing this. Crowley was here, and he wanted - they were going to - Aziraphale could hardly finish the thought as he squeezed his eyes tight and moved his hand from the side of Crowley’s neck to the back of the man’s head, fingers brushing against the hairs at the nape of his neck. It was much shorter now than the last time Aziraphale had seen it, although no less brilliant in color. If he’d had his eyes opened, Aziraphale knew the strands would be a burning mixture of copper and rich auburns with a few even highlighted in gold.

Another groan escaped Crowley’s mouth as his tongue traced a line against Aziraphale’s bottom lip. Blood pooled to Azirapahle’s abdomen and his hips jutted up reflexively, seeking friction to provide some semblance of relief for the want that was beginning to burn inside of him. He was rock hard - harder than he’d ever been in his life, not that such a thing was difficult to do. In his twenty-three years on Earth, Aziraphale had never done anything like this before. He’d imagined it, of course. In the dark of the night when he was sure no one would see him, Aziraphale had touched himself, thinking of the young boy who had stolen his heart all those years ago. He had pictured the weight of Crowley’s thin frame on top of him, imagined how his fingers might feel as they ran up and down the length of him. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the forest fire of sensations that were currently raging through him now that his deepest fantasies were coming true. Reflexively, his hand flew upward, tangling itself into Crowley’s locks of hair, seeking something for him to hold onto, lest he lose himself in the anticipation of the moment. Aziraphale tugged on the strands, marveling at how soft they felt against his skin and Crowley groaned a third time, sliding both his hands up under Aziraphale’s jacket and pushing it down as far as it would go before getting caught against the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow.

“Your turn,” the man panted as he pulled back, lips red and swollen from the prolonged contact with Aziraphale’s. “Jacket off.  _ Now.  _ Shirt too.”

This time, Aziraphale could not hold back the moan of want that surfaced inside his chest, climbing out his throat before he had a chance to do anything about it. A sharp hiss of breath echoed the sound and Crowley was tugging upward at his shirt, fingers ghosting over the skin of Aziraphale’s stomach. Every inch of skin he touched was lit up with electricity, humming with the energy that coursed between them.

Aziraphale’s eyes slowly fell to Crowley’s half naked form. The curve of his strong shoulders, sinuous arms and freckled chest, leading downward to his flat stomach and the patch of copper hair just poking out beneath his naval. Another surge of heat flowed through Aziraphale’s body, settling in his groin as his hands took on a mind of their own. Suddenly they were reaching for Crowley, wrapping around the back of his neck, cupping his cheek as Aziraphale shifted them both around so he was lying flat on his back, the weight of his beloved pinning him down. Keeping him grounded and here in this moment that he never wanted to end. The couch was lumpy and barely long or wide enough to contain both of them. Aziraphale could feel the side of his right arm hovering over the edge of it, but he didn't care. He would have stayed here in this abandoned place forever, if it meant getting to keep Crowley with him.

Clothing was discarded faster than Aziraphale could keep track of. In a rush, his jacket and shirt were thrown to the floor and he was met with the overwhelming sensation of warm skin against his own. Crowley shifted above him, pressing their chests together as he peppered kisses across Aziraphale’s jawline, pausing every once in a while to ghost his teeth across the sensitive flesh, making the blonde-haired man fall to pieces beneath him.

“Crowley,” the name erupted from his lips with a sharp gasp as Crowley found a particular spot at the base of his throat that caused a thrill to shoot down Aziraphale’s spine, his hips bucking upward reflexively, seeking out any friction he could find. “My dear,  _ please.  _ I need _ - _ ”

“Yes,” the red haired man breathed, releasing a quiet moan of his own as he ground his own hips forward, rubbing against Aziraphale in a way that made the man weak. “Yes, Aziraphale. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything. Everything.”

“I want,” the man gasped, feeling like his heart was about to burst from his chest. He stretched his hands out, reaching for the waist of Crowley’s pants, searching for a button or a clasp or  _ something _ he knew had to be there keeping them together. “I want to feel you. I want to  _ touch _ you. Please, you have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this moment.”

Aziraphale’s words were cut off as Crowley leaned forward and captured his lips with a searing kiss. Once again, his eyes slammed shut and it was all the man could do to remain in one piece as the nerves on every part of his body lit up like fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day.

“Oh,” the man breathed against the skin of Aziraphale’s cheek, rough and covered in blonde stubble. “I think I can wager a guess as to what that feels like, Angel.” 

Aziraphale shivered at the sound of his nickname, the name that had haunted his dreams for nearly a decade now. The name he had whispered to himself in the darkness of the night, heart aching because it never quite sounded right. To hear it coming from Crowley’s lips now was a sound more beautiful than any heavenly choir could ever be.

“Relax, angel,” Crowley whispered as he pulled away. Through hazy eyes, Aziraphale glanced down to see the man he  _ loved _ shift backward, and with one fluid motion, remove every article of clothing attached to Aziraphale from the waist down, throwing it into a heap on the floor.

The shock of the night air on his exposed skin was short-lived. As soon as Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, he felt a set of soft, warm lips pressing against the skin of his abdomen. His cock twitched in anticipation, the tip of it brushing teasingly up against Crowley’s chest. Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back inside his head and for a moment he simply let himself savor the sensations. He felt the warmth of Crowley’s lips against his skin, moving from the top of his stomach, around his navel and down to hover over his fully erect member, precum already dripping from the head onto his pale skin.

“Let me take care of you, yeah?” His voice was rough and filled with emotion that made Aziraphale’s heart ache inside his chest. How long had they both been dreaming of being together in this way? How many nights had Crowley lain in bed alone, wishing Aziraphale was there by his side? “Let me make you feel good, Angel.”

Lips pressed up against him, softly, sweetly, and Aziraphale felt tears flood his eyes. He sat up quickly, propping himself up on his elbows as he looked down at the head of flaming red hair - honey brown eyes blown wide with lust as Crowley hovered over him, mere moments away from making Azirapale’s wildest dreams come true.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale cried, a sudden panic rising up within him. He felt the tears threatening to run over, his heart thudding painfully against the inside of his chest. What was he doing? After all this time - all those sleepless nights, all those days of waiting and watching and worrying. How could he let this person who was so dear to him move a step further without saying the one thing that needed to be said?

The red haired man jolted up in surprise, his amber eyes coming to rest on Aziraphale’s face. Shadows flickered across the skin on one side of his face, unable to disguise the confusion that had entered his expression. Wanting to clear things up as soon as possible, Aziraphale forced himself to continue. “Crowley,  _ please _ .” He could feel his own voice catching in his throat and Aziraphale willed himself on, desperate not to break down now. “You have to know that I love you so. I have loved you for years, Crowley. I have wanted you for as long as I can remember knowing how to want. I just - I need to you know that, before…”

He couldn’t say anything more. Not only because the emotions in Aziraphale’s heart had reached a crescendo, but because Crowley had repositioned himself over top the blonde man once more, a hand reaching out to caress the rounded cheek still lit up by the candlelight.

“I know, Angel,” Crowley breathed, leaning down to kiss him sweetly, lips brushing up against him in the lightest of touches. “Oh, Aziraphale. My heart and my soul. Will you let me love you? Will you let me show you?”

All Aziraphale could do was nod his head in response. Crowley kissed him once more and then took up his place at the other end of the couch. Everywhere his lips touched was like fire and when Crowley took Aziraphale’s length into his mouth and Aziraphale felt the wet heat of him, the man was unable to stop himself from reaching up to tangle both hands in Crowley’s hair.

“Oh,  _ Crowley, _ ” he moaned, trying his best to keep his hips still so he would not choke his love. Aziraphale had never felt something as wonderful as this. Yes, he had fantasized about this. Yes, he had touched himself, but nothing could prepare him for the sensation of his beloved Crowley hovering over him, narrow fingers digging into the plush part of his thighs as he proceeded to suck Aziraphale off with vigor. “You are splendid, my love. Absolutely perfect. Oh, please. Please don’t stop.”

Crowley groaned, deep in the back of his throat and the vibrations of the sound went right to Aziraphale’s cock. It pulsed with heat and his body spasmed entirely on its own, thrusting deeper into the warm, inviting mouth still surrounding him.

The pressure began to mount quickly, coiling in the bottom of his stomach as Crowley bobbed up and down, lips pressed tightly against the skin of Aziraphale’s cock, wet saliva allowing him to glide up and down easily, increasing his pace faster and faster as the breaths in Aziraphale’s lungs came in quicker and quicker gasps.

Another moan escaped Crowley’s lips as Aziraphale tugged upward on the fiery strands of hair trapped between his fingers. He slid off for a moment, drawing in deep ragged breath and Aziraphale took the opportunity to lift his head and fix his blue gaze upon the sharp, angular face.

“Oh Angel,” the man breathed, his face flushed with color shining brightly even in the dimly lit room. “Aziraphale I want to feel you against me. I want to feel you  _ inside _ of me. I want to make love to you well into the night and wake up first thing in the morning and see your face. Every goddamn day of my life.” Crowley’s breath hitched as Aziraphale reached out and brushed his fingers against the blushing cheek. “I want you to wrap your arms around me and never let me go. Whatever you are willing to give, I will happily receive. Whatever you want from me, I give it all to you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiled. He beamed, from one ear to the next as he looked up at this beautiful creature. All his fears melted away in that moment. His fear about his lack of expertise, of the situation they’d found themselves in, of what might happen when this magical spell that had been cast over them was broken. In the wake of Crowley’s loving gaze, all there was left to feel was an overwhelming sensation of love. One that Aziraphale never wanted to part from again.

“Rid yourself of those trousers, my dear,” the man murmured, releasing the strands of red hair and brushing a hand from Crowley’s thin neck down his chest and stomach before coming to a rest just above the brass button. Even from here, Aziraphale could see the shape of him pushing up through the fabric and the sight of it sent another thrill down his spine. “Come. Be with me as I’ve always dreamed you would be.”

Crowley did as he was told, removing the rest of his clothing in the blink of an eye. Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath as his cock sprung loose, thick and long and begging to be touched. Without thinking, he reached out and stroked it, feeling the soft, warm skin dance across his fingertips.

“ _ Angel.” _

There was no more talking after that. Nothing but ragged breaths and moans and cries of delight as Crowley fell into him, lips capturing Aziraphale’s once more as the man wrapped one strong arm around his thin shoulders. The other came to rest on Crowley’s stomach, pressing softly against the freckled skin as the red haired man pressed down into him, rubbing their cocks together with a frantic need that would have rendered Aziraphale unable to stand, had he not already been in such a position.

An overwhelming wave of desire overtook Aziraphale and he quickly found his hand wrapped around the both of them, moving in time with Crowley’s thrusts as the man gasped raggedly at the edge of his mouth. Crowley was coming undone above him, shaking with need as he leaned down to press more kisses against Aziraphale’s throat. Wrapping his arm tighter around his lover’s gorgeous form, Aziraphale continued his strokes, feeling the wetness of them both dripping softly onto his stomach.

Once again, the heat began to coil inside of him, building in a crescendo until Aziraphale thought he might die of pure pleasure. His fists clenched in anticipation and the man lifted his chin to brush his lips against the pale ear hovering in front of his face.

“I love you, Antony Crowley,” Aziraphale declared in a breathless voice, unable to conjure up any more sound than that. Somehow, he knew it would be enough. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

At the sound of his lover’s sharp intake of breath and the moan that caught in Crowley’s throat, Aziraphale felt himself come undone. The heat that had been gathering in his abdomen burst forth, filling his entire body with a torrent of pleasure unlike anything he had ever known. It rushed through him, ripping a cry from his lips, causing his back to arch as his hips jutted forward. Toes curled, hands clenched, vision swam before his eyes and Aziraphle was eclipsed with euphoria that seemed to last a lifetime, and no time at all.

In the momentary darkness, he felt Crowley tense above him, felt the heat of his seed spilling out between them both. A broken ‘angel’ escaped his lips before the arms holding him up shook and fell, bringing him tumbling down onto Aziraphale’s chest. For a moment the pair teetered dangerously over the edge of the couch, but a quick shift of Aziraphale’s body caught them both. Strong arms wrapped themselves around the trembling thinner frame the blonde haired man hugged Crowley tightly against himself. A soft warm presence, the man’s heart thrumming against Aziraphale’s own, beating in time with one another.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale shushed as he extracted his trapped hand from between them, slid it up against the back of the couch, and began to gently stroke the back of Crowley’s head while pulling his lover closer. “It’s alright. I’ve got you, dearest.”

Crowley nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck, sending tingles of energy down the man’s entire body. He felt tears welling up once more as, slowly, the man’s heart began to quiet, his breaths returning to a less ragged pace.

“ ‘ve wanted you for so long, angel,” the man murmured. “Thought about you every night. All the time.” He breathed in deep, long fingers coming to a rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder as his eyelashes brushed gently across the skin of his neck. “I didn’t know ‘t was possible to love someone this much.”

There was no way to explain what triggered it. Perhaps it was the way Aziraphale’s heart felt it was about to burst from his chest. Or the way Crowley fit so perfectly in his arms, or maybe the sheer breathless beauty of the candlelight dancing across their exposed skin as they lay together in the abandoned farmhouse. One moment, he was floating in absolute bliss, and the next, his chest seized with panic. He momentarily forgot how to breathe as tears overpoured from his eyes, running down his cheeks and onto the side of Crowley’s head before he had a chance to stop them.

“Angel?” the other man murmured, obviously feeling the tremble of Aziraphale’s arms as they wrapped themselves around him ever tighter. “Aziraphale, what’s wrong?”

He sounded so scared in that moment. So broken and small and Aziraphale realized what this must look like to his beloved. How did he convey to Crowley that these were not tears of remorse, but ones of fear and loss? What could he possibly say to express how utterly terrified he was of waking up to find the man gone from his life once more? Never to be seen again.

“What are we going to  _ do _ , Crowley?” he whispered into the night, turning his head to press a kiss to his lover’s forehead. “We’re on opposite sides of a bloody  _ war _ . When morning comes, where can we go? I can’t - ” He stopped, voice lodging in his throat. “I can’t lose you again.” The tears fell faster now, shallow breaths barely able to keep up with a heart that had taken off at a sprinter’s pace yet again.

“I love you. I don’t know how to live without you.”

Crowley extracted himself from Aziraphale’s neck, lifting a hand to rest against the man’s cheek, amber eyes soft and understanding. With great determination, Aziraphale focused on Crowley’s face, taking deep, soothing breaths as his best friend - his  _ love  _ \- leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against his lips. Aziraphale melted into it, allowing his eyes to close and his mind to gently drift away to a place where they could stay like this forever.

“It’s alright, Angel,” Crowley murmured, breaking the kiss as he smiled down at Aziraphale, filling the man’s heart with warmth that spread all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. “We found each other again. In all this chaos, fate brought us together. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I love you and you love me. That’s all we will ever need.”

“Come,” Crowley breathed after a moment of contented silence. He shifted around, lifting himself up a bit as he looked around the room for the first time since Aziraphale had sprung him with that original kiss. “Let's get ourselves cleaned up. We both could do with some sleep.”

“No,” Aziraphale murmured, his arm tightening around Crowley’s waist, keeping him there. “Don’t get up, dearest. I’m not ready to let you go.”

He felt Crowley smile into his chest, arm shifting around to reach for Aziraphale’s bag. With one fluid motion, he tugged the bedroll loose from its confines and stretched it out over the pair so at least they would be shielded from the chill of the night’s air. Despite the musty smell around them, the sticky feeling that had collected on his stomach, and the way the two of them were crammed together on the old lumpy couch, Aziraphale smiled. His eyes grew heavy as Crowley shifted once more, sliding his lithe body to rest in the narrow space between Aziraphale’s hip and the back of the couch. The weight of him and the warmth he exuded was more amazing than Aziraphale had ever thought to imagine. He never wanted to leave this place.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured as he felt Crowley’s lips brush up against his neck, eyes falling shut as exhaustion overtook him. “So very much.”

“I love you too,” the man whispered back, moving his hand to rest in Aziraphale’s. “More than you could ever know. Sweet dreams, my angel.” 

All the worries of the rest of the world could wait until morning. For tonight, Aziraphale could be content where he was - resting in an old, abandoned farmhouse, covered with only a single blanket, his arms wrapped around the most perfect creature to have ever walked the earth. The object of his affection for nearly ten years and the piece of him he feared he might never see again. His best friend, his beloved, his  _ everything. _

His Crowley. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! It was definitely a learning experience for me writing it, but I had fun :) One more chapter to go and then Part 2 will be complete. Stay tuned, and again, thank you all for your continued support with this story. It means the absolute world to me <3
> 
> Good news! I just finished up one of my major Good Omens writing projects, so from here on out, this one will be my top priority. That means more frequent updates for all of you :) Hope to see you again sometime this week!


	15. Part 2: July 13, 1916 (Morning)

Aziraphale awoke to a gentle pressure on his stomach, the brush of something warm against his cheek. A swift, deep breath rushed into his lungs as blue eyes fluttered open. Slowly, the scene began to build around him. A melted candle on the floor nearby, tattered curtains letting in the soft light of dawn. Strands of dirt stained red hair tickled his brow and Aziraphale hummed a soft noise of approval before tilting his head to the side to gaze at the gorgeous pair of honey colored eyes staring back at him.

“Is it morning already?” Aziraphale asked, lifting a hand to brush against Crowley’s cheek. The man smiled, lines crinkling around his eyes in a way that made butterflies erupt in Aziraphale’s stomach. How was this possible? He’d been so sure everything that had happened the previous night had been a dream. Some sort of terrifying nightmare that had slowly morphed into something far more beautiful - something he’d long thought was just a fantasy, a desire, a want, a _need_ that would never be fulfilled. And yet, here he was. Lying chest to chest with the love of his life. Palm pressed against Crowley’s cheek, bright smiles on both of their faces.

Despite the odds, despite everything that had been thrown at them, they had found each other again. A fierce wave of determination swept through Aziraphale as he leaned up to brush a kiss to Crowley’s lips. He was never letting go of this human being ever again. 

Just as quickly, a coldness began to seep into Aziraphale’s chest as that thought entered his mind. What were they going to do now? His statement from the previous night had not been wrong. They were two men hopelessly in love, caught on opposite sides of the greatest war the world had even known. How were they ever going to get past that? How could Aziraphale hope to keep Crowley by his side for the rest of eternity when walking out the door could very well be a death sentence to them both?

“Hey now,” Crowley murmured, placing a soft kiss on Aziraphale’s nose that was so sweet and gentle it made his heart want to burst forth from his chest. “None of that, Angel. We’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”

“How?” Aziraphale found himself asking, left arm shifting to hold the man closer to him. Just that simple movement sent a dull ache down the entire side of his body. He’d been out here on the front line for months, sleeping in tents and thin mats on the ground. Aziraphale was used to days upon days of uncomfortable nights. Despite his protesting body, falling asleep on this abandoned couch that certainly did not have room for two grown men could hardly be classified as such. Given the choice, he’d do it all over again, just to have the chance to wake up and see his beloved’s face. “The moment we step outside, we’ll be targets from both sides. We’re probably already targets now.”

As the words left his mouth, Aziraphale felt his breaths beginning to shallow. His grip on Crowley’s waist tightened, if only to stop his hands from trembling too much, and tears began pooling in his eyes. What was he going to do? Had he already doomed them by choosing to stay the night here? What if there were soldiers out there _right now_ looking for them? They hadn’t walked that far the previous night. Neither one of them knew how the battle had ended. Had the English and French prevailed? Were they planning to do a sweep of the countryside to try and eliminate any of the opposing side who had escaped? Had the Germans banded together to chase the attackers off? Would they send out companies of soldiers to clear the area of any stragglers?

They were in danger. Whichever way the tides had turned, the night was over. Morning had broken and they were like sitting ducks, hiding away in this abandoned place. Soldiers were going to find them and they were going to take Crowley away from him. Aziraphale was never going to see his love again and it was all _his fault_ . If he had gotten up when Crowley suggested. If he had pushed them to keep going. To find a place further away to hide. He could have done _something_ , but now it was too late. He was going to lose everything he’d ever cared about, all over again. After everything they’d just shared together, Aziraphale didn’t know if he had the strength to survive it this time.

“Angel,” Crowley’s soft voice slowly pulled him back to the present moment. Aziraphale blinked, a small smile dancing across his lips as a warm hand shifted to his cheeks, long wiry thumbs brushing away the moisture that had stained them. “You and I are going to be fine. Here’s what we are going to do. We are going to get dressed and pack up our things. We will eat some of the food I know you have stored away in that bag of yours, and then we will get the hell out of here.”

Aziraphale chuckled, his panic slowly ebbing away. Warmth filled his heart as he looked up at the tall, lanky man still sprawled across his bare chest. Absentmindedly, one of Aziraphale’s hands shifted from Crowley’s cheek to the back of his neck, playing with the short hairs there. He smiled as Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut almost instinctively, rolling back in his head with a look of pure bliss upon his face. Briefly, the man wondered if the short hair was a style choice on Crowley’s part, or if he’d been forced to cut it in order to join the military. In his eye, the red-haired man looked beautiful no matter what, but there was something about the thought of those long auburn tresses that made him remember a simpler time.

“And wherever are we going to go?” 

Crowley grinned at that. A bright, almost devilish sort of thing. “The sky’s the limit, angel!” he declared, pushing himself up and sweeping an arm out dramatically to the side. Blue eyes flickered down momentarily, admiring the view of the pale torso, freckled shoulders, and sinewy muscles that shifted with every slight movement. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his chest as his heart quickened at the sight. How was it that someone as beautiful as Crowley wanted someone like him? 

“We can go wherever you like. Switzerland or Spain or even back to England, if you want. I was only there a short amount of time, but those were some of the best days of my life so far.”

Neither one of them pointed out the very obvious reason for that statement.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chuckled as he leaned over the side of the couch, reaching for his own shirt and trousers. Slowly he sat up, slipping his foot into one leg followed swiftly by the other. “We’re in the middle of a _war_ , remember? And you’re the enemy. They’d never let you cross the channel, let alone grant you access back into England.”

None of this information seemed to sway Crowley in any meaningful way. He shoved his head through the tattered and stained shirt, glancing down at Aziraphale from where he stood - fully clothed now, except for his boots and jacket. “How do you feel about America? I’ve always wanted to go and see what it’s all about.”

Aziraphale simply smiled as the red-haired man continued excitedly. “We could head to Spain and hop on a boat!” he announced, sidling back over to the couch where he collapsed into it, turning to face Aziraphale with a look that caused the blonde haired man to melt. “You and I could start over there. You could open up that bookshop you always wanted. And I’m sure I’d find something to do. They’re pretty advanced there across the pond from what I’ve heard. It shouldn’t be that hard to find a plane somewhere that _someone_ will let me fly.”

Blue eyes widened. “You - “ Aziraphale broke off, the words he wanted to say getting stuck in his chest as the true meaning of Crowley’s statement began to sink in. “You remembered…”

Crowley’s smile quickly turned into a frown, deep lines appearing on his brow. “Remembered what?” the man asked quietly, fixing his gaze upon Aziraphale’s.

Heart expanding in his chest, the man blinked back a fresh wave of tears. “My bookshop. You remembered I want to open a bookshop.” How long had it been since he’d mentioned it? Five, six years? In a letter, no doubt, and still Crowley had remembered such a small, insignificant detail.

The pale face in front of him softened. “Of course, angel. You said it was your dream. How could I ever forget it?”

Unable to hold himself back, Aziraphale leaned forward and captured the man’s lips within his own, relishing the soft sigh that echoed in the still morning air around them. Butterflies erupted in his stomach once again and the man found himself wishing he could stay here in this moment forever.

As much as he wanted it, Aziraphale knew they could not. They had to get moving. The sooner, the better.

“I love you, dearest,” the man found himself murmuring, pulling away as the hand that had risen to cradle Crowley’s face began to gently stroke his lover’s cheek. “More than you could ever know.”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open and Aziraphale’s heart flared to life. He could feel his hands beginning to shake, the blood rushing through his veins like a torrential river after a heavy rainfall. The way this man _looked_ at him - Aziraphale had never experienced anything like it. He felt so cherished, so loved, so _seen_. 

“I love you too, angel,” he murmured softly, leaning in for another kiss that made Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat. “Always have. Always will.”

Forcing himself to pull away, Aziraphale leaned back and allowed his eyes to drift toward the window. Most of the glass was obscured by the tattered, dusty curtain that hung in front of it, but from this angle, Aziraphale could see a thin sliver of morning light - a soft, lavender color, not quite showing the bright gold he knew to be coming. 

Something moved in the distance, making its way out from the almost black trees on the horizon. Crowley turned around immediately, launching himself off the couch and over to the window. He positioned most of his body to the side, hovering just before the curtain so that he did not move it with his presence. Although he could not see them, Aziraphale could tell that Crowley’s eyes were frantically flickering back and forth, searching for whatever it was that had caught Aziraphale’s attention.

“Shit!” the man hissed, the sudden intensity in his voice causing a spark of panic to shoot down Aziraphale’s spine. Energy rushed through him, jump-starting the beat of his heart and rocketing it into his throat where it lodged there, making it difficult for the man to breathe. The way Crowley was holding himself. The tightness of his fists by his side. The way his spine had stiffened as a result of whatever he had seen. It sent spasms of terror all throughout Aziraphale’s body, starting in his stomach, cycling through from his head to his toes before finally settling in the very center of his heart.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale managed to choke out, doing his best to fight the rising panic. What is it that he had seen to upset him so much? “Crowley, what’s wrong?”

The man spun around, rushing forward to grab Aziraphale’s pack which was still lying strewn on the floor, along with his gun, still resting against the far wall. Without looking up at him, Crowley reached out and grasped the blanket currently crumpled to the side of the couch, hurriedly rolling it up and stuffing it back in the straps where it had once been held secured.

“You need to hide.”

Aziraphale’s mouth went dry. “Hide?” What had Crowley seen? Why was he so afraid? “Crowley, dearest, I don’t underst - ”

“ _Now_ Aziraphale.” All terms of endearment had vanished. He was Aziraphale now, not Angel. There was no room for negotiation in Crowley’s voice. No chance to argue his point or try to persuade the man that they should take another course of action. The next instant, Crowley’s hand had darted forward and grabbed tightly onto his upper arm. Aziraphale gasped from the pain, certain that the vicious grip would leave bruises, but said nothing as he was practically dragged from the couch and over to the kitchen out back

The whole time, Crowley kept him away from the windows. He placed himself between Aziraphale and the outer walls, eyes darting around wildly to look for any sign of danger outside. Heart lodged in the base of his throat, Aziraphale was silent. Unable to say a single word if he wanted to. Unable to breathe, to think, to feel. All he could do was blindly follow the hands that guided him, through the house and over to the cellar door that stood just around the corner.

“Your knife,” Crowley demanded, shortly, quietly, his amber eyes burning as bright golden sunlight filtered through the shattered window behind him, setting his auburn locks ablaze. Aziraphale blinked, looking at the man before him as if he were standing face to face with a stranger. Where was his Crowley? Where was the man who had so lovingly held him all night? Who had kissed him and cared for him. Whose hands had so gracefully danced across Aziraphale’s skin. What had happened to set off such a drastic change?

“What?” he managed to stutter out past the clenching in his stomach and the seizing of his heart.

Crowley’s grip tightened on Aziraphale’s arm. “Aziraphale.” There was the use of his full name again. The sound of it sent another wave of fear through him light lightning. “Angel, _please_. I need you to listen to me. There are soldiers outside. German soldiers. They are making their way down here and if they find you here with me, they will kill us both. Do you understand?”

There was something in his voice. Some hint of darkness that Aziraphale did not understand. Dread fell over him, trickling down his spine like the sensation of a cold winter’s rainfall. They’d been found. Crowley was right, if those soldiers discovered Aziraphale, he would be shot on sight. If they found Crowley here with him, the man would be labeled as a traitor. There was no way the two of them would walk out of this alive if Aziraphale did not hide. That much was clear.

So what did Crowley need the knife for?

“My knife...but why?” he asked, not hesitating to pull it from the case on his belt. Crowley could have asked for the moon itself and Aziraphale would have taken his rope, tied it together, and pulled it down from the sky with his bare hands.

Crowley did not answer, and the look on his face told Aziraphale he should not ask. He loved Crowley. He trusted Crowley to keep them both safe. That was going to have to be enough. 

He handed it over without a word and saw, to his horror, a single tear escaping from the corner of Crowley’s eye. Long, dextrous fingers lifted to hover at his round cheeks, paler in this moment than they’d likely been before, showing an outward sign of Aziraphale’s inward fears.

Quickly, quietly, without another word, Crowley gently guided Aziraphale into a soft, slow kiss. Aziraphale melted into it, his arms reaching up to wrap around Crowley’s thin waist, pulling his love closer, if only to feel his presence once more, anchoring him to this moment that was about to come crashing down around the both of them, shattering every happy thought, every bright hope for the future - every dream Aziraphale ever thought to have.

“I love you, angel,” Crowley whispered fiercely, breaking away from the kiss enough so that their eyes met one last time. His amber orbes so intense, studying every inch of Azirpahale’s face, as if this might be the last time he would ever see it. “Never forget that.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale was pushed down, down into the dark and the damp and the chill. No light, the smell of must and damp earth filling his nostrils, reminding him of the myriad of trenches he’d been forced to climb through. Trenches filled with blood and death and decay, searing images into his mind that the man knew he would never forget.

Breath trapped in his lungs, Aziraphale listened. He listened as a single pair of footsteps made their way back to the sitting room, back to the one piece of furniture left in this entire place. He listened as there was a beat of silence, followed by a low grunt of pain, too quiet to be heard from anywhere but directly below. He listened as the door burst open and loud, intense shouting was heard. Words darted back and forth in a language he did not understand until, finally, they faded in intensity. Low laughs could be heard, followed by words that almost carried traces of relief behind the foreign tongue. 

Through it all, Aziraphale kept his ears trained on Crowley’s voice. Every time it stopped, his heart seized with panic, lungs taking in quick, shallow breaths that he kept silent with the simple thought that if he made sound now, he would certainly be discovered, and Crowley’s life would end. Every time the achingly familiar sound started up again, Aziraphale remembered how to hope, just for a moment, that things might turn out alright. That Crowley would convince these soldiers that he was just fine. That he would persuade them to go away just long enough for the two of them to flee the scene. To hitch a ride to Paris or Toulouse. To hop the border into Spain and charter a boat to America where, while they would still be forced to hide their affections for each other, they would at least finally be on the same side.

Footsteps sounded again and Aziraphale held his breath. Tears streamed from his eyes as he reached up to fumble for the watch in his front pocket, pulling it out and squeezing it tighter and tighter until the metal bit into his hand and the pain on his skin eclipsed the pain in his head and his heart. He needed something, anything, to distract him from the fact that he was here, hiding in an abandoned French cellar, watching his life fall apart in front of his eyes for the second time. 

_Please,_ Aziraphale prayed, pressing the treasure to his chest, remembering picnics and cool grass and bright stars above and summers that he never wanted to end. _Please don’t take him away from me. I’ve only just found him. I know people say loving him is wrong. I know they say it’s a sin. That we’re sick, that we need help. I promise, I’ll never touch him again - never kiss him again or hold him at night. Just, please, don’t take him away. He’s the only thing in this world that I care about. Please let me keep him in my life. Don’t take him away. Please. Please. Please._

It didn’t matter. Nothing he said or did would ever matter. There was no one up there listening, Aziraphale was sure of it. How could there be when, one by one, the footsteps faded away into nothing until Aziraphale was left with only silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reason I told you this story has three parts....welcome to the conclusion of Part 2. I'm so so sorry to do this to you all. It broke my heart writing this chapter, and you better believe that fixing what I've done to these two is my top priority. Part 3 is a bit shorter, so hopefully I'll be able to wrap this up for you soon. My goal is to have it finished by the end of the month, but I think I could probably do it in less time than that as long as things keep flowing .
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support. Reading your comments after I update is the most wonderful part of my day <3 I hope you are continuing to enjoy this story as it continues. I promise if you stick with me until the end, you will be satisfied.


	16. Interlude: News

_ The Evening News _

_ Monday November 11, 1918 _

**THE END OF THE WAR**

The armistice was signed at Five o’clock this morning, and hostilities are to cease on all Fronts at 11 a.m. to-day.

**Foch calls the “Halt!”**

Troops not to pass beyond line reached at 11.

“Cease Fire” on all fronts.

**How the Kaiser escaped.**

**Rush into Holland by motor car**

**Shots fired at his train.**

According to an Eysden message, shots were fired at his escape across the Dutch frontier by motor-car. He is reported to have arrived at Middachten Castle

The King of Wurtemberg has abdicated and left “for an unknown destination” and the King of Saxony and the Grand Duke of Oldenburg have been dethroned.

Everywhere throughout Germany the revolutionaries are apparently in full control. Sharp fighting is said to have taken place in Berlin, and at Kiel the revolutionaries have been joined by the battleships Poren, Otsfriesland, Nassau, and Oldenburg.

**Alsace Rejoices**

“We Want to be Reunited to France, our Motherland.”

* * *

_ The Daily Mirror _

_ January 20, 1919 _

**Death of Youngest Son of King and Queen**

It is with deepest regret that  _ The Daily Mirror _ announces the death of Prince John, the King and Queen’s youngest son. The Prince, who was thirteen years of age, had been in delicate health for some time, and had been living in retirement at Sandringham, where, on Saturday, he passed away. 

* * *

_ The Daily Mirror _

_ October 19, 1920 _

**March of Workless: Baton Charges in Whitehall**

Unruly scenes marked the closing stages of the march of 10,000 unemployed from fifteen London boroughs. After joining forces on the Embankment, they marched to Downing street, where the fifteen mayors were received by the Prime Minister. A dense crowd gathered and, firmly resisted by a police cordon, four deep, tried to force its way to the door of No. 10. A balustrade gave way and one demonstrator fell and was badly injured. Repeated charges by mounted and foot constables followed, sticks, stones and bottles being freely used by the crowd, a veritable battle raging in the half-gloom. Twenty policemen were injured as well as many civilians.

* * *

_The Daily Mirror_

_December 7, 1921_

**Irish Peace in Sight: Parliament to Meet**

The King's joy at the signing of peace with the Sinn Fein delegates will be shared by all his subjects, for his speech at Belfast paved the way to a final settlement. "I am overjoyed to hear the splendid news" he wired to the Premier. Ulster's cabinet yesterday considered the terms for two and a half hours and then adjourned further consideration until today. The British Parliament is to be summoned to ratify the Irish agreement and will be opened in State by the King.

* * *

_The Daily Mirror_

_June 12, 1922_

**Run Down Bakery Re-imagined Into Bookshop**

Aziraphale Zacchaeus  Fell, of Soho London, has recently fulfilled his life-long dream in opening a bookshop. Among its newly stocked shelves are classic literature pieces including Shakespeare, Aristotle, and Homer's Odyssey, as well as newer tales. J.M. Barrie's 'Peter and Wendy', Oscar Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Grey', and so many others. The operating hours can be found posted on the bookshop door, but we have also jotted them down here for your convenience.

_ "I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays). _

_ A.Z. Fell, Bookseller" _

So come on by and peruse the vast collection. You will never know what sort of treasures can be found unless you do!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so while I did a ton of research for these, I didn't actually write any of them except the very last one. Because of this, the next chapter is being uploaded tonight as well. Can't leave you all with no new content :)


	17. Part 3: April 4, 1923

Soft, trembling hands reached out for the bookshop sign, turning it from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. Blue eyes fluttered shut for a moment as Aziraphale took in a deep, steadying breath. The chimes of the nearby church bell rang throughout the street signaling the turn of the hour. Through the blinds, the man could see the afternoon light of spring beginning to peek through the cloud cover above. A beautiful day indeed, and yet, his heart was heavy. The air around him felt thick, making his movements sluggish as he opened the door, took a step outside, then shut it once more with a sharp  _ click. _

Aziraphale’s feet meandered down the London streets, pulling him along the path he traveled so frequently nowadays. Without a word, he passed his favorite Italian restaurant there on the corner of Beak St and Golden Square, turned the corner and made his way toward St. James Park. It wasn’t exactly a shortcut to his final destination, but Aziraphale found that he could not alter his course for any reason. He’d come this way the very first time he made this journey and he would come this way each time after.

A stab of pain entered his chest as it always did when the man passed by that familiar grove of trees. People always said the pain would lessen with time. They said that each day would get just a little bit easier until the agony he felt coursing through his entire body was nothing but the faintest trickle of a stream. At one point, early on, he might have actually believed them. Not anymore. 

It had been five years since the war ended and he’d been allowed to return home. Seven years since he’d last seen Crowley’s face - last heard his voice. Sixteen years since they’d laid on this very patch of grass, gazing up at the stars, dreaming of a future that could never be. They said time healed all wounds, but how much time? Aziraphale had been longing for his lost love over half of his life now. How much longer did he have to feel that all-consuming ache, that hollowness in his chest, threatening to break him apart from the inside out?

He didn’t pray. Not anymore. Not since the day that his whole world had been ripped from him once again. Not since Crowley had been taken away from him. What was the point in praying, when he knew not a single word would be heard? What was the point in offering up his pain when he knew there would be no one there to help him carry it?

Still, as the thirty-one year old stood silently in front of the monument, eyes drifting slowly over the names etched into the surface, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wish that things were different. He wished a lot of things were different. He wished so many soldiers hadn’t died in the war. He wished he’d never had to leave home. He wished he could shut his eyes and just sleep, instead of hearing gunshots in his mind, jolting him awake at every hour of the night. 

Most of all, he wished he knew that Crowley was alright.

Aziraphale had spent the last five years trying to locate his love. He’d tried everything he could think of, with no success. All letters written to Crowley had been returned. All trips to the library to sort through records had left him empty handed. Any attempt to reach the man’s parents or relatives or anyone across the channel that might know more were fruitless. Aziraphale was drowning in unopened correspondence marked ‘return to sender’ He was floundering in an ocean of names that meant nothing to him, with no clue as to what to do next. 

And so, the man did the only thing he knew how to do. He walked, he stood silent, he waited. As if standing here before a monument that had long been completed might grant him more clarity. As if returning here day after day might banish the visions from his mind and the ache within his heart. 

“Mine was named Richard.”

A soft voice sounded beside him. Aziraphale turned to find a middle-aged woman, dressed head to toe in a dark burgundy dress despite the rather unusually warm weather for this time of year. She’d been crying. It was obvious in the puffiness of the skin around her eyes. The red blotches of discoloration on her cheeks. The tremble in her hands and the softness of her voice.

“My soldier,” she continued, keeping her eyes fixed on the sea of names in front of her. The one labeled “Richard Kelley” stood front and center. “My son. His name was Richard.”

Aziraphale forced a smile, the words not even beginning to bubble up in his mind. What else was there left to say? What thoughts could he pull together and voice out loud that she had not heard already?

“Antony,” the man found himself saying, despite himself. “His name was Antony.” The word sounded foreign on his tongue. He had never been Antony to Aziraphale. The pale faced man with the flaming red hair had always been Crowley. Nothing would ever change that.

“A friend of yours?”

Aziraphale had found over the years that everyone mourned differently. Some chose to stand silently, stoically, letting their lives pass them by. Some tried to pretend that everything was alright now that the war had been won. They attended fancy parties and stayed up all night drinking and dancing their cares away. Some people grew angry. Some people tried to busy themselves with menial tasks. Distractions, to try and dull the pain.

And some people...some people needed to talk.

“Yes,” Aziraphale felt his throat starting to constrict, but he fought through it. Talking his way through his despair wouldn’t solve any of his problems. There were no words anyone could say to him that would still his aching heart. No words that could calm the fears that rose within him every time he closed his eyes. “My best friend. From when we were boys.”

He swallowed, pushing down the sorrow and the hurt and the longing. “I, uh… His name isn’t up here,” the man explained, worrying the woman might be searching the list for someone named ‘Antony’. “I lost him. Seven years ago. I’ve tried writing letters. Phoning his family. There’s never any response. I don’t know -”

A wave of emotion rose up within him, cutting off his voice mid sentence. Aziraphale turned his head and gave the woman an apologetic smile. She returned it, seeming to understand exactly what he had wanted to say but couldn’t.

Aziraphale didn’t know. He didn’t know if Crowley was safe. Didn’t know if Crowley was alive. Didn’t know if the man was still in Germany or another nearby country or somewhere else in the world entirely. 

He didn’t know, if Crowley was still alive, why the man hadn’t tried to contact him in all this time. 

“You were childhood friends?” the woman asked after a while, the words settling comfortably between them Aziraphale had no words to explain it. He hated talking to strangers about Crowley.  _ Hated _ how hopeless doing so made him feel. Hated how he could talk but not actually be speaking. He couldn’t talk about how strong their friendship had been for fear of being found out. He couldn’t explain how much his heart ached at the thought of never seeing Crowley again with the looming knowledge that such a confession would likely put him in jail for the rest of his miserable life.

This was different. There was no reason to think so, and yet Aziraphale felt it in his gut. There was something about this woman that made him comfortable. Perhaps it was the fact that her eyes were the same shade of grey blue as his mother’s. Or maybe it was the gentle voice that settled in the air between them. And maybe it was none of that at all. Maybe, after sixteen years of loss, he was finally ready to say something.

“Best friends,” he answered, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We met in preparatory school. He was only in the country a year, but we wrote to each other every year until the war started. He was a pilot, you see. A rather good one, and -”

Once again, Aziraphale’s voice died as his throat constricted with emotion. What was he evening planning on saying next?  _ And I loved him more than I should? And I miss him more than anything else in the world? And I would have heard if our side shot him down? _

“It’s nice to hear you two kept in contact,” the woman was saying, her eyes still fixed on the monument towering before them. “Even with the physical distance separating you two. That's the sign of a good friendship, right there. My sister and I had that, you know. She married an American some thirty years ago. Moved across the ocean, but I continued to write to her every week. Kept all of her letters too, in one of the drawers of my dresser."

"You know," the woman continued, a pensive look coming over her face. "There was a time there where we stopped writing to each other. I thought maybe I'd done something wrong - I didn't hear back from Gina for months on end. Turned out she had moved neighborhoods and forgot to send me her new address. All my letters were showing up on some stranger's doorstep and I had no clue."

The woman kept talking, but Aziraphale was no longer listening. How could he when the blood suddenly rushing through his ears caused such a roar, he could barely hear himself think? 

It was insanity. Aziraphale knew it the moment those words had left the woman’s mouth and yet, somehow, his entire chest had flared with a hope so bright it was nearly blinding. What  _ if _ ? What if Crowley had been writing to him all this time? What if the letters had all gone to the wrong place? What if they’d both been reaching out for what they had always known to be true, not stopping to think that  _ everything _ had changed.

“Excuse me!” the man exclaimed, tipping his hat to her as he hurried off. “I’ve just remembered - I’ve got to - so sorry!”

The excuses tumbled from his lips, but in the time it took Aziraphale to gather his words, the woman was already out of sight. His legs were practically flying down the street, darting around pedestrians and motor vehicles parked in the streets and horse drawn carriages and every other obstacle the city decided to throw in his path. Aziraphale dodged them all, his feet remembering the pathway home like it had only been yesterday that he'd lived in that quiet, quaint neighborhood. 

He entered the main street, blue eyes flickering to the building to his left. The familiar outline of the maple tree in his front yard. The white brick surface and deep navy shutters. From here, he could even see the storm drain he'd climbed down all those years ago, on that very night he'd dreamed of so many times since.

Eventually, the man's footsteps slowed as he approached the house. Chest heaving, lungs trying to catch up with the rest of his body, Aziraphale halted on the front stoop, placing his hands upon his waist and giving himself a minute to breathe. He hadn't exactly been dressed for such physical exertion, but the moment the man's mind had grasped onto that single strand of hope, there was nothing left to do but race here as fast as his legs could carry him.

Evidence of Crowley's continued existence could be here. There could be a mountain of letters inside this house just waiting for him. Letters to Aziraphale proclaiming the man to be alive. Declaring his undying love for Aziraphale. Outlining plans for them to finally be together, now that the war was over. Everything Aziraphale had ever wanted could be waiting for him just on the other side of this door. Or, there could be absolutely nothing here at all. 

There was no way to tell how long he hovered outside of the familiar navy blue door. No way to tell how many times he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Any neighbor who happened to catch sight of him likely thought he was crazy, or worse, that he was good-for-nothing hooligan trying to break in. Aziraphale didn’t care what they thought. All he cared about was the hope that potentially lay on the other side of this door. If only he were brave enough to seek it out.

“Oh!” the man huffed, tugging at the sleeves of his pale suit jacket. “Don’t be such a coward.”

Trembling, he lifted a hand to the door. Aziraphale could feel his heart ramming against the confines of his chest. He hoped the internal nervousness didn’t display outwardly in any obvious fashion. What would these people think, him turning up out of the blue like this? Aziraphale hadn’t called this place home in  _ years _ . He’d gone off to war nearly a decade ago and had never come back. Yes, his parents had still lived here up until a few years ago, but what right did that give him to come back now? This wasn’t his home. It hadn’t been in a very long time.

Footsteps sounded on the other side of the frosted glass door. Aziraphale felt his mouth go dry. What in the world had he been thinking? He should leave now. If he hurried, he could duck beyond the nearby shrubs and be out of the door’s line of sight by the time the figure was able to answer his knock. Aziraphale would wait them out and then return to his bookshop. Alone. Still having no idea if his love was still alive.

No. The man gritted his teeth and stood firm, watching as the silhouette became more and more feminine with each step. He was not going home until he knew, one way or the other, whether Crowley had been searching as desperately as he had. If there was a chance that even one letter had made it here, he had to stay and see this to the end. 

The door opened. Light filtered in through the small crack, illuminating the cherry wood floors, spilling in over the burgundy carpet runner down the hall. Aziraphale first noticed the woman’s shoes, sturdy black boots, tied up to the top with crisp laces. A dress made of overlaid blue and violet fabrics. Deep in color and seeming to shimmer as the fluttered in the soft breeze. Cinched waist, tanned hands and wrists peeking out from underneath the similar colored sleeves. A pair of black rimmed glasses perched above a rather small nose. Warm brown eyes, a soft smile, and a familiar looking pendant resting above the hollow of her throat.

“Anathema?” He couldn’t believe it. How was it that she was here, of all people? This had to be some kind of trick. A dream that he’d only just now realized he was having. How was Anathema - Newton’s Anathema - here answering the door of his childhood home. “How? What -”

The smile on the woman’s face brightened. Her soft brown eyes sparkled in the afternoon light as she took a half step back, clearing the doorway in an invitation. “You must be Aziraphale,” she murmured. “Newton’s told me all about you. Please, won’t you come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back again (finally)! This part of the story has been much more difficult to write, and I do apologize for the delay. I am trying my very best to get content out to you all when I can, but if I'm being honest, I'm going through a really rough time right now. I find myself constantly staring at an empty page on a laptop screen with absolutely nothing to say. However, if you can be patient with me, I promise I will do my best to finish out this story strong. I've got it all planned out in my head. I just need to take a deep breath and put it down on paper. 
> 
> Hopefully now that Part 3 is officially started, the rest of it will flow a little smoother. Stay tuned!
> 
> P.S. You really didn't think I was going to forget about Newton and Anathema, did you? ;)


	18. Part 3: April 4, 1923 (Afternoon)

It was surreal, walking between the walls of his childhood home so many years after he had left. The general structure of the building was the same. The floors still the same bright reddish brown. The same narrow hallway and old creaky banister leading up to the second floor. And yet, everything was different. There were paintings littering the walls. Paintings consisting of watercolors and pressed leaves and wildflowers. Not a single portrait stared down at him like they had when he had been a child. The curtains were drawn open wide, letting in sunlight from every angle, brightening the space more than he’d ever seen it before.

“How,” Aziraphale asked, his eyes still opened wide, taking everything in as the woman lead him down the hall and to the back of the house where he knew the gathering room to be. “How are you here? I don’t understand.”

A soft chuckle emerged from Anathema’s mouth. She turned back toward him with a gentle smile. “Would you believe me if I told you it was the universe’s mysteries at work?”

“Probably,” the man responded automatically, attention drifting to the set of narrow stairs on his left, leading up to the second floor. At the very edge of his hearing, a quiet thudding could be heard from above, followed by a gentle voice. It was too soft and too light to belong to Newton. Too childlike to be anyone other than - 

“That will be Claire,” Anathema’s voice sounded, much closer than before. On instinct, Aziraphale stopped, head turning back to where he was walking. His hostess had stopped abruptly, the man’s lack of attention almost causing him to run right into her. Heat rose to Aziraphale’s cheeks, but Anathema said nothing, simply flashing him a soft smile as her brown eyes drifted up the stairs toward the sound.

“Why don’t you run up and grab her?” the woman suggested. “I’ll go track Newt down and the four of us can sit down together and have tea and biscuits.”

Aziraphale paused. Blue eyes glanced up the narrow stairs, then back down to the woman standing before him. “You want _me_ to go get her?”

Anathema laughed, reaching out a hand to push him gently in the right direction. “Go one. She’ll be happy to see you. I promise.”

The man did not ask any further questions, though as he climbed the creaky stairs, he thought that perhaps he should have. Newton’s daughter would be happy to see him? How? She had never met him before in her life. Sure, Newton had talked about Claire nonstop when they’d been over in France. He had shown Aziraphale every photograph possible, every letter with an update about her. But as far as he knew, Claire had no knowledge of who he was. The Pulsifer family, up until somewhat recently, had lived out in the country. Despite Newton being one of his best friends, Aziraphale had been lax in keeping up with him over the past several years since they’d both returned home.

It wasn’t like he’d meant to ignore his friend. Aziraphale cherished the deep bond they had formed over in France. His days were instantly brightened whenever he received a letter from the man and he looked forward to every reply. Still, with everything going on in his life, Aziraphale had allowed himself to grow lax. He’d become preoccupied and had not put in the effort required to keep up with a long distance friendship like he should. 

The floors beneath him creaked as Aziraphale reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner, hand already reaching for the brass doorknob leading to the room where he spent most of his childhood nights.

“Claire?” he called out, blue eyes dancing around the room. At first glance, there appeared to be no one there. How strange. He could have sworn that he heard her voice coming from up here, so where was she?

Something shifted in his peripherals and Aziraphale turned. There, one half hidden underneath the bed, was a girl dressed in trousers and a white button up blouse. Her head was turned away from him, arm stretching as far as it could into the shadowy depths as if she were desperately searching for something she could not quite reach.

“Need any assistance?” he asked, taking a single step into the room. Aziraphale watched as the girl paused, extracting herself into a kneeling position, long black curls sticking out in several different directions.

She trained her brown eyes on him as several seconds of silence passed. Then, all of a sudden, it was as if a light bulb lit up behind them. Her expression shifted seamlessly from one of confusion to delight as the young girl leapt to her feet and rushed toward him, arms outstretched.

“Mr. Aziraphale!” she cried with delight, thrusting herself into his unsuspecting embrace, her head coming up to just below his sternum. “You’re here.”

“That I am, my dear,” he responded, shocked at her overwhelming delight at seeing him. He was pretty certain she had never met him before in her life, and yet here she was greeting him like a long lost friend. His heart filled with warmth as a smile crept onto his round cheeks. “You seemed to be having a bit of trouble. Any chance you could use a bit of assistance?”

Claire pulled back, cheeks flushed pink with exertion. “I dropped my notebook between the bed and the wall and I can’t reach it.”

Aziraphale nodded his head, stepping forward into the room and kneeling down on the edge of the woven purple and teal rug. Rolling up his sleeve, the man leaned forward and lowered himself down onto his elbows, reaching one hand forward to feel around for the item. At the edge of his hearing, he heard something clatter against the wooden floor for a moment, but a moment later, that sound left his thoughts as perfectly manicured fingers brushed up against a leather bound book. Moments later, he had grabbed a hold of the spine and was tugging it out, handing it back over to the girl waiting patiently beside him.

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale’s eyes glanced downward, following the sound of the soft clatter against the wooden floors. To his surprise, he found a familiar, old golden pocket watch lying half open beneath him. The man slowly extricated himself from beneath the bed and moved to a sitting position, hand reaching out to gently pick up the treasure. 

“This is my watch,” he explained, turning the familiar object over in his hand. For a moment, a spark of dread burst through him as he realized the face had popped open. Had the watch been broken when it landed on the floor? Faint ticking still vibrated against his palm, so the main components seemed to still be in order. What about the rest of it? Had the hinge been knocked loose? The protective glass in front of the mechanical arms cracked?

The picture inside ripped or torn?

Relief washed through him a second later as Aziraphale used his thumb to slide the face open and saw that there was no damage at all. Not to the glass, not to the hinge. Not to the faded picture of the school-aged boy smiling back at him. Everything was just as it was supposed to be.

“Who is that?”

The question caught Aziraphale by surprise. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been expecting it, he just hadn’t expected the young girl’s voice to sound so close. She was practically on top of him now, hovering right behind where he knelt, chin peeking over his shoulder as her wide brown eyes took in the picture before her.

“Is he your wife?” Claire continued to ask when Aziraphale said nothing. He’d tried to answer her. Tried to come up with an explanation for why he had a decade and a half old photograph pasted inside his most valuable possession. The words had bubbled up inside him, ‘ _a very dear person to me’, ‘my childhood friend’, ‘someone I never wish to forget’,_ but they died once they reached his throat.

Upon hearing her second question, Aziraphale paused, the breath stilling in his lungs. “My...wife?” What a ridiculous question. Why was she asking it? And why did hearing those words, from a child no less, make him simultaneously want to laugh with joy and cry tears of despair?

Claire nodded vigorously as the man shifted around to sit cross legged facing her on the floor. “That’s why you have his picture there, right? Because he’s your wife? Daddy has a picture of mum inside his watch. What’s his name?”

“Anthony,” Aziraphale found himself replying before his mind had even fully registered the question. His thoughts were still swirling around the child’s assumption. Crowley, as his wife? The thought was so heart wrenchingly wonderful. It could never come to pass, of course, but in that moment there was nothing else in life that Aziraphale wanted more. Tears pricked at his eyes and he fought them back. He would have plenty of time to mourn for his lost love later, when he was again behind the closed bookshop doors. “Anthony Crowley.”

“That’s a nice name,” Claire declared, clutching her notebook tightly to her chest. “Did he come visiting with you? Daddy told me I’d get to meet you one day, but he didn’t say anything about meeting your family too!”

Deciding it was much less painful to focus in on the second part of her statement, Aziraphale simply shook his head, blue eyes gazing up at her soft face. “Your dad told you about me?”

Claire grinned, reaching out to grab onto his hand, helping the man get to his feet. Her touch was gentle, smile mirroring that of her father - wild, a bit lopsided, and filled with joy. “Of course he did! You’re a hero, Mr. Aziraphale! You saved Daddy’s life while he was away. _And_ you’re his best friend. I talk about my best friend, Anna, all the time. So it only makes sense for him to talk about you too!”

Aziraphale fell behind her, stunned to silence. His heart was racing inside his chest, feeling like it was mere moments away from splintering into several pieces. How he _wished_ Crowley could be here with him. Of course, if he had been, what were the chances Aziraphale would have stopped by that afternoon? He had come here with the intent of trying to find Crowley.

Once again, Aziraphale’s thoughts returned to the hope slowly creeping into the corners of his mind. What if? What if Crowley had been writing to him here this whole time? Aziraphale’s parents had moved out to the country a few years ago. What if they had forgotten to set up a forwarding address? What if they had set one up but hadn’t included him when doing so?

It was wishful thinking, a shot in the dark, a final ‘Hail Mary’, but it was all Aziraphale had. If there were no letters here for him, what else was there? He’d tried writing Crowley himself. Tried to contact any family members or friends he could think of and had gotten no reply. He’d looked through any and all documents he could get his hands on - records of fallen soldiers from both sides and had seen no news.

If there were no letters here, Aziraphale would have to admit defeat. He would have to give up hope that he was ever going to see Crowley again. He would have to let his love go and move on with his life or he would surely waste away to nothing. He would drown in his sorrows, fall to pieces if he kept floundering through day by day, hoping for something that would never come to pass. 

Claire led him by the hand down the stairs and towards the back of the house. Blue eyes drifted up from the back of her dark brown curls up to take in the room as he entered. The moment they fell on the man seated at the table, newspaper in hand, his fears momentarily dissipated. Joy and an overwhelming adoration welled up inside of him and the man couldn’t have contained the wide smile that broke out across his face, even if he had wanted to.

“Aziraphale,” Newton breathed the second the man looked up. His brown eyes sparkled with delight as he pushed back from the table, hands reaching up to grip the table as he slowly rose to his feet.

It was only then that Aziraphale noticed the cane resting gently against the table beside him.

An intense guilt flashed through the blonde-haired man as he looked over at his friend, reaching for the intricately carved item to help him maneuver across the room. Aziraphale had known Newton suffered a grievous injury during the war. He had been standing in that field right beside the man when the gunfire had sounded. A few inches the other way and it would have been Aziraphale fighting for his life instead.

Aziraphale had known Newton had been injured. He had known that Newton had been honorably discharged from the armed forces and sent back to England to recover. He had been in contact with Newton since the war ended. They had written letters back and forth nearly every month. Newton had been the first one to congratulate Aziraphale on his bookshop. He’d sent pictures every Christmastime of his family. They’d talked about family and the state of the world. Of plans for the future. Aziraphale considered Newton to be one of his closest friends, and based on what his daughter had said earlier, he felt the same way.

So how had Aziraphale not _known_? How had Newton never mentioned his injury had never fully healed? How was this the first time they had seen each other since that fateful summer back in 1916?

“Newt,” the man echoed, reaching out with one hand to pull the man into a tight embrace. “It is good to see you. I’m sorry it took me this long.”

Although he could not see his friend’s face, Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. “A hundred years could pass between us and you would still be welcome here.” He breathed in deep and pulled back so Aziraphale could finally meet his gaze. “It is so good to see you as well, Aziraphale. I’m happy you stopped by.”

Aziraphale nodded, not knowing what else to say. Did he tell Newt why he was really here, or spend some time visiting first? Either way, Aziraphale wanted to stay and talk with his friend. He wanted to stay and get to know Anathema and Claire, but would he even be able to do that with this tiny spark of hope flittering around inside his chest. Buzzing incessantly, demanding that he find out, once and for all, whether the key to Crowley’s whereabouts lay here, of all places.

“Tea’s just about ready, boys,” Anathema called from the kitchen as a high pitched whistling brought through the noise inside his head. “Why don’t you all have a seat and I’ll bring it out to you.”

“Claire,” she continued, almost as an afterthought. “Come help me pick out some snacks for our guest.”

Aziraphale felt a soft squeeze on his hand and turned his head in surprise. Had Claire been holding his hand this whole time? He couldn’t recall if she had let go as he’d embraced Newt. A tentative smile on his face, Aziraphale squeezed it back finally releasing the girl’s hand to allow her to join her mother in the adjoining room.

“What’s on your mind, Aziraphale?” Newton asked as his daughter skipped away. Aziraphale looked over, startled for a moment, but relaxed when he caught sight of the knowing look in his friend’s eyes. Newton may be uncoordinated and frightfully unlucky at times, but he was no idiot. He knew something was wrong the moment Aziraphale stepped into the room.

“I didn’t know you and Anathema lived here when I knocked on your door,” he answered, helping Newton find his seat at the table once more. “This was the house I grew up in. My parents moved after the war ended and all of us soldiers came home. I thought - ”

He hesitated, words hovering on the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale trusted Newt with his life, but this secret he held - this overwhelming hoard of feelings trapped inside his chest - he’d never told anyone about them. And for good reason. Admitting the depths of his feelings for Crowley, while no longer a death sentence, was not something that would bring him any peace. He could spend years of his life locked away in a prison cell for the things that he had done up until this point.

“There’s this friend of mine,” he eventually forced the words out of his mouth, glancing away from Newton’s face and down to the folded newspaper in front of them. “I last saw him in the summer of 1916. I can’t find his name among the deceased. I’ve tried writing to him. Phoning his family and friends. Nothing I do seems to work. I’ve been trying to reach him for five years now and I - I _hoped_ maybe I had overlooked something. That somehow, he’d been writing to me this whole time and the letters had ended up here.”

He looked up at Newton then, blue eyes brimming with an unspoken prayer. After all this, Aziraphale still couldn’t bear to ask the question out loud. He couldn’t bear to hear the rejection he feared was coming.

Newton’s face fell and Aziraphale’s heart stopped beating. “No,” he murmured, the corners of his lips tugging downward, creases forming on his brow. “I’m sorry Aziraphale. We’ve been here for some time now and there hasn’t been anything delivered for you or your parents.”

And there it was. The hope within him died, snuffed out like a candle’s flickering flame. Aziraphale was plunged into darkness. Instead of the overwhelming sorrow he expected to feel, the thirty-one year old man felt only numbness. A cold seeping feeling that seemed to creep through every vein in his body, turning him to ice inch by inch. Time seemed to slow down as the words registered in his mind.

Crowley hadn’t been writing to him. Crowley wasn’t waiting for his reply.

Crowley was gone and he was never coming back.

“I’m so sorry, Aziraphale,” Newton’s gentle voice broke through his thoughts, “is there anything I can do? Phone calls I can make?”

“No,” the response was barely more than a whisper, but it echoed in the space around them like a thunderous roar. “No, there’s nothing left to be done.”

Just then, before the words could reach his heart, before they could sink their claws into him and drag him down into despair, a bright-eyed young girl bounded into the room carrying with her a plate of biscuits in one hand and a bowl of freshly washed grapes in the other. Behind her, Anathema followed suit, an entire tray of tea necessities balanced between her willowy fingertips.

“Help yourself,” she murmured, setting the tray down in the center of the table as mother and daughter joined them. Claire shifted in her seat, sliding the wooden chair forward until the table was pressed up against her stomach. Aziraphale glanced down at her for a moment, feeling a smile sliding onto his face as something warm fluttered within his chest.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of everything like he feared it would be. Maybe he could start living again, with a little bit of help. Maybe, with his friends around, someday down the road he would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! I hope you enjoyed the interactions in this chapter. I realize Aziraphale is having a rough time right now (as are a lot of us these days), but I promise things will start to look up soon. Hang in there.
> 
> If, like me, you find yourself stuck at home and are feeling a bit lonely, feel free to reach out. I love meeting and talking to new people.
> 
> https://twitter.com/beckers522  
> https://braver-stronger-smarter.tumblr.com/


	19. Part 3: April 11, 1923

The bookshop was empty. 

It had been empty for an entire week, almost entirely due to the ‘closed’ sign hanging in the window. Aziraphale had made no attempt to change it. He’d made no attempt at all to open up the shop or reorganize the books or even lift a finger to clean the thin layer of dust that was now congregating on the tables and shelves and along the window sill. The bookshop was a mess to even his standards and Aziraphale could not find it in himself to care. He could barely find the strength within himself to get out of bed most days, let alone do anything productive.

What a sorry sight he was. Aziraphale recognized this and still did nothing. It was insanity to believe that his life was over now that he had lost hope of ever seeing Crowley again. How could one man have such a hold over him? He’d gone to school with Crowley for a single year back when they were  _ fifteen _ . Spent seven years of his life writing letters back and forth and only had a small stack of worn parchment to show for it, hidden in a box beneath his bed. He’d suffered through an entire war and been given the chance at one night with Crowley. One night. And then been forced to part for another seven years.

By all logic, the gaping wound in his heart should have healed by now. Aziraphale should be able to lead a happy life with his friends and family nearby. So why did he feel so empty? What had he hoped to gain if Crowley had made it out of this war alive? Did he expect them to actually be together? Even if that was what they both wanted, even if their actions didn’t affect a single living soul other than themselves, the world would never allow them to be together. If anyone found out about the way they felt for each other, it would be a one way ticket to prison, for both of them. 

He was better off this way, Aziraphale reasoned. This way, he still had his family. His bookshop. Aziraphale was living his dream. It was everything he had ever wanted.

Except for the most important thing. 

Honestly, what had he expected? That night spent in the abandoned farmhouse and the one many years before it laying against the grass in St. James Park had been the center of his fantasies for so long, but that was all they were. Fantasies. Dreams that he now knew - that he’d always known - would never come true. 

He let out a weary sigh, blue eyes drifting over to the dying embers in the fireplace. It was April now, and spring was well on its way to full bloom. Still, the nights brought with them a fierce chill that Aziraphel could not seem to shake. No amount of firewood or flames or blankets of any kind could warm him.

Almost on its own, Aziraphale’s hand reached up and fished out the worn pocket watch from his front breast pocket. For a while, the man did nothing but gaze at it, perched securely between his fingertips, feeling the vibrations of the second hand as it continued to march in a clockwise direction around the clock’s hidden face. Aziraphale was amazed that it still continued on, after all this time. After nearly seventeen years and a war to boot. Not just any war, either. The war to end all wars. And still it kept perfect time. It continued forward day by day. Minute by minute, second by second. As if everything was alright.

Maybe that was a sign that he could too.

A gentle knock at the door stirred the man from his thoughts some indeterminate amount of time later. He shifted in the armchair, realizing in the back of his mind that the embers had now gone completely cold. The knock sounded again. It wasn’t urgent, but it sure was persistent. Couldn’t they tell the store was closed? What good was a sign when no one stopped long enough to read it?

“Mr. Aziraphale!” a familiar voice called out, muffled through the thick slab of wood between them. At Claire’s call, Aziraphale finally rose from his comfortable armchair, allowing his tartan patterned blanket to slide to the floor. He would pick it up later. For now, he had a very important visitor to see to. 

Slipping the watch back inside his pocket, Aziraphale crossed the length of the bookshop and unlocked the door, opening it to find, to his surprise, a waist high girl holding a sealed mason jar with no one else beside her.

“Claire,” Aziraphale began, eyes darting about her. “What are you doing here all alone, my dear? Surely you didn’t walk all this way by yourself.”

The girl smiled brightly up at him, and despite the chill that still seemed to permeate the air around him, Aziraphale’s heart warmed, ever so slightly.

“I did walk here!” she exclaimed proudly, causing Aziraphale’s heart to seize in his chest. It was nearly three kilometers from his old home to the Soho area. Did her parents know she was gone? Were they worried sick about her? So much could have happened to her. He should pull her inside right this instant and phone her house, if nothing else than to let his friends know their daughter was safe.

“Mum came with me,” Claire continued and Aziraphale felt himself physically deflate, the tension immediately leaving his body. Of course Newton and Anathema wouldn’t let their daughter leave home unsupervised, especially if she was walking through this part of town. “She’s down at the end of the street talking to the lady with all the flowers. Told me to run up here and give you this.”

And run she had. Aziraphale could see it now. He could see it in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, in the strands of dark colored hair that had flown loose from the twin braids draped over her shoulders.

Eventually, the meaning of her words sunk into his mind and the man’s eyes drifted down to the jar in her hands. It was filled with something. A liquid of some kind, perhaps? With something almost milky white in color sloshing around from one side to the other as Claire shifted the container in her hands.

“What are those?” the man found himself asking, curiosity getting the better of him. Claire looked up at him and reached her hands out, offering him the gift with another bright smile.

“Pears!” she announced proudly. “Mum and I were at the farmer’s market this morning and they had some extras. She thought you might like them.”

Aziraphale forced a smile, but inside, he was falling apart. Gingerly, he took the jar from her hands, eyes flickering down the road a ways, looking for any sign of Anathema nearby. “Thank you very much, my dear,” he heard his voice saying, but it sounded so distant. Barely audible beneath the roaring in his ears. Almost as if someone else was speaking and he was but a humble bystander, politely waiting for the moment he would be permitted to excuse himself from the situation. “Tell your mother I said hello. Do you see her now? Good. Run along. I’m sure I’ll be by sometime later this week for supper.”

His words streamed together, but Claire didn’t seem to notice. She simply darted in for a quick hug and then ran off down the street, the sound of her mother’s voice registering in Aziraphale’s mind, letting him know she was alright before he shut the door tightly behind him. Blue eyes stared at nothing as the man slowly turned and took a trembling step forward. His hands shook violently against his will and moments later the jar of pears slipped from his grasp, glass shattering against the hardwood floor. 

The impact was deafening, and at the same time, barely audible at all compared to the great thundering of his heart. Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath and took a single step forward, vision swimming before him as he rapidly blinked, trying to clear it. Trying to find his way back. Back to the bookshop, back to the calm and quiet and even the cold that had been surrounding him just moments before. But it was no use.

He was no longer in the bookshop. No longer in the familiar streets of Soho. No longer in the modern, post-war world. Aziraphale had been transported back. Back to spring afternoons and a picnic by the Thames. He could feel the checkered blanket beneath his fingertips, see the glint of the setting sun against the water. Smell the sickly sweet air, filled to the brim with ripened pears. At his side, he could sense the presence of another, if only he could turn his head to see him. All he wanted was a moment. Another glimpse of that fiery red hair - those gorgeous amber eyes. That  _ smile  _ that took his breath away . 

Was it so terrible, to want one final goodbye? Aziraphale knew that was a lot to ask. How many of the people he knew got that chance? How many of his friends had put their lives on the line as they fought for years upon years through the bullets and the dirt and smoke? How many of them got one last chance to say goodbye to the ones they loved? Still, his heart cried out for it. Just  _ one more _ chance to see Crowley. To make him understand that he was still loved, more than he could ever know. To kiss his lips once more and tell him that while they may not have been fated to find one another in this life, they would in the next. Aziraphale was sure of it. He was sure that his soul would never rest until he was at peace with his beloved once more.

“Crowley,” the man moaned, falling to his knees, the cool liquid of the spilled fruit juices seeping into his trousers. He barely felt it at all. Nothing around him felt real. It was a dream, a nightmare that he so desperately wanted to wake up from. “Oh,” Aziraphale sobbed as his vision swam before him once more, tears he thought he no longer had to shed finally spilling over like a rushing waterfall. “My dearest - darling Crowley. I - miss you - so much.”

His breaths were coming in shallow now. Aziraphale tried to slow them down, but his lungs seemed impossible to control. He could feel his throat beginning to constrict and the man leaned forward, trembling fingers splayed against the course grain of the floor beneath him. The thrum of his heartbeat slammed against the inside of his chest and Aziraphale felt it as the world began to spin around him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong. It had to be. What else would explain this kind of reaction? He was having a heart attack, surely. Or an allergic reaction of some kind. Help. He needed help.

The man tried to call out. He tried to shout, tried to scream for someone to come. Claire had been right outside that door moments before. Surely she could still hear him if he tried hard enough. Opening his mouth, Aziraphale forced what little air remained in his lungs out of them, feeling it tear against the inside of his throat, but no sound came out. He could produce nothing but a silent scream as the pressure began to mount bit by bit inside of his chest.

Good lord, he was going to die here. Right here on the floor of his bookshop, covered in pear juices, surrounded by shards of glass, unable to say a single word as the rapid rise and fall of his chest brought little relief to his aching lungs. He was drowning. Drowning in loneliness and despair. Every dream he’d ever experienced had been such a  _ waste _ . They’d kept him alive all these years, clinging to hope that someday things might be alright, and for _what_? Not a single one of them was ever coming true, no matter how much Aziraphale hoped and prayed they might. He was going to die alone, here, this very afternoon, and no one would ever know. No one would care. No one was coming to save him. It was only a matter of time now, before his vision faded completely and there was nothing left of him.

“Get...up,” the man wheezed sometime later. It could have been mere moments, or minutes, or perhaps even hours later. Sun was still drifting in from outdoors, but it had taken on a much darker tone. Had night fallen already? Or was it simply a vast cloud passing by overhead? With the blinds shut, there was no way for him to know, even if Aziraphale did have the strength to lift his head and look.

“You have to get up,” he tried again as his breaths finally steadied. Round, soft cheeks were flooded with tears and beneath him, the man’s arms still trembled like they were about to give out from under him at any second. “No one is coming. Not Newton, not Anathema or Claire. Not Mother and Father, and certainly not Crowley. You have to get up  _ now _ or you will waste away to  _ nothing. _ ”

_ Get up, get up, get up. _ Aziraphale urged himself onward in his mind, managing to crawl several feet forward, miraculously avoiding the broken glass all around him as he did so. With a great deal of effort, the man shifted into a sitting position, his back resting up against the bottom few shelves of the nearest bookcase.  _ Stand up. On the count of three you are going to stand up, you useless shell of a man. You are going to stand up and clean up this mess you’ve made and you are going to move on with your life, for Heaven’s sake. _

“Crowley’s gone,” he heard himself say out loud, face muffled in the sleeves of his dress shirt as he buried his head in his arms, sopping wet knees drawn up to his face. “Crowley is gone and he’s never coming back and you need to accept this because there is  _ nothing _ you can do about it. All you can do is accept that you will never see him again and let him go. Just let him go,  _ please _ , let him go.”

It was a lie. Of course it was a lie, but what else could he do? What other words could he say to convince himself that things were going to be alright? What else could he do to stop this aching inside of him that was slowly tearing him apart, bit by bit?

“One.”

At least he’d gotten his body back under control. At least air could now enter his lungs. He could finally see again, should he choose to open his eyes. That was progress, wasn’t it? He just needed to take this one step at a time. First step, remember how to breathe again. He’d done that hadn’t he? Aziraphale had somehow managed to calm himself down enough to think again. That was progress. It was.

“Two.”

Next step was to get himself up off this floor. When he finished counting he would rise up on shaky legs, march himself upstairs to his flat and clean himself up. He would then grab a bucket and a sponge and clear away the mess he’d made and then Aziraphale would open this goddamn shop. He would stop wasting his life away over some lost love. People lost loved ones every day. He had lost count of how many of his countrymen had never come home from the front-lines. Surely their families felt just as much pain as he did, and yet they didn’t give up living. Well, neither would he. Aziraphale had faced down the end of the world and come out the other side, hadn’t he? He could live through this too, he was sure of it. All he needed to do was take that first step.

“Thr-”

The final count was cut off by a sudden soft jingle of the bell above the bookshop door. It sounded so distant, so  _ wrong _ that although his voice stopped mid word, Aziraphale didn’t register the noise for several long seconds. Someone was here. A customer. He’d forgotten to lock the door and someone was  _ inside _ the bookshop. And here he was crouched here on the  _ floor _ , of all places.

That very thought nearly sent Aziraphale into another panic, but somehow, the man held onto his nerve. There was a chance they hadn’t spotted him yet. He could still salvage this. Surely, if the customer had seen him, they would have rushed to his side to make sure he was alright, wouldn’t they? What he needed to do now was lift his head and take in the situation. He could be pretending to kneel down and stock shelves, or dusting the volumes one by one. No one had to know he’d nearly lost his mind earlier that afternoon. No one had to know he was falling apart from the inside out, crumbling like a castle made from sand touched by a gentle breeze. No one had to know anything was wrong. He would put on a brave face and never take it off again, for as long as he lived. He could do this. He could. He had to.

“Welcome to A.Z. Fell & Co.” Aziraphale announced, the threat of being found out finally being enough to spur him to action. “Do watch your step there. Bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Just give me a moment and I’ll have it cleaned - ”

As he spoke, Aziraphale’s blue eyes shifted upward along with the rest of him while he stood. In the moments it took for his heart to beat a single time, the man took in the scene before him - one of a single man standing in the doorway silhouetted against the busy Soho streets, the edges of his faded grey suit fluttering in the breeze along with millions upon millions of shoulder-length copper strands. Copper hair framing a delicate angular face housing the most stunning amber colored eyes Aziraphale had ever seen.

“Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who celebrate, Happy Palm Sunday! This is my absolute favorite Sunday of the year and I was so saddened to have to miss it. Luckily for you all, I used that extra free time to sit down and focus as best I could on this chapter. Just 2 more and an epilogue to go!


	20. Part 3: April 11, 1923

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, if you hadn't guessed, this chapter get's a little spicy ;) The first section is totally safe, but after the break, things get heated. You've been warned.

“Hey Angel.”

The voice drifted across the room to Aziraphale, bouncing around inside his head for a few moments that seemed to stretch on for a lifetime before settling deep within his heart. What was this? Some kind of dream? A hallucination brought on by grief? 

Aziraphale had spent the past five years searching for his best friend. He’d tried everything and had finally concluded that Crowley was gone. He had finally decided it was time to move on with his life, and then the man walks through his front door like he hadn’t just raised himself from the dead. No. It wasn’t possible. Crowley  _ couldn’t _ be here, and yet.

“Is it really you?” Aziraphale found his heart asking before his head could shut the words down. Hope he thought was long burnt out flared to life inside his chest and the man took a single stumbling step forward. He stopped in his tracks just as quickly as he started, hands coming to rest against the deafening pounding of his heart. Trembling fingers interlocked themselves together in a sort of mangled prayer as Aziraphale stared wide eyed at the figure still hovering in the doorway.

“Yes,” came the painfully quiet response, as if Crowley himself didn’t seem to understand how this moment could be real. “Yes,” he tried again, stepping forward so he could shut the door tightly behind him, blocking out the entire rest of the world.

Shutting them in. Alone.

“It’s me, Aziraphale.” The way that name danced across Crowley’s tongue made Aziraphale’s heart want to sing. This was  _ real _ . After all these years apart, all the years of searching and wanting and wondering and  _ waiting _ , Crowley was finally standing in front of him, less than ten feet away. 

Aziraphale closed the space between them in a matter of seconds, practically launching himself into Crowley’s arms, burying his face in the other man’s neck. He breathed in deep, inhaling the sharp, familiar scent that had haunted his dreams night after night after night. Countless questions danced around the man’s head. Was Crowley alright? What had happened to him all those years ago when he’d left Aziraphale alone in the cellar of an abandoned farmhouse? Why had it taken him so long to make his way back to London? Why, in all that time, had none of Aziraphale’s letters ever been returned?

“Where have you  _ been _ ?” the words slipped out, brushing up against the warm skin of Crowley’s neck. A hand rose to the top of Aziraphale’s head, resting in the thick tangle of his blonde curls. Softly, hesitantly, almost as if it didn’t want to be there.

In an instant, Aziraphale was pulling himself abruptly away, panic seeping into his mind. What had he been thinking, assuming Crowley would still want this? Still want  _ him _ ? He had been so focused on his desire to find Crowley again that Aziraphale hadn’t stopped to consider what he should do should such a miracle ever occur. He’d never stopped to consider what  _ Crowley _ might want out of all of this. 

“So sorry, dear boy,” he found himself saying, blue eyes glancing to the floor in an instant, unable to look Crowley in the eye anymore for fear of what he might find there. “I got a bit ahead of myself there.”

“No.”

The word was so strong, so sure, so filled with pain that Aziraphale found himself looking up before he could think to stop such an action. Blue eyes met amber and the blonde-haired man was blown away by the depth of emotion he saw shining through them. Crowley’s eyes shimmered with tears, and for the first time since he walked through that door, Aziraphale felt like he truly  _ saw _ the man. His face was thin to the point of being gaunt. The obvious beginnings of a beard littered his face and his clothes looked old and worn, as if they had been made for someone a few sizes larger.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley began, reaching out a hand as if to grab onto Aziraphale’s arm once more and pull him back close. “If you still - if there’s anything still  _ here _ between us, please for the love of all that is good, don’t pull away from me now. I have spent the past five years fighting my way to your side.” He took in a deep shuddering breath, blinking his eyes several times to clear away the moisture that had gathered there. “If you truly want me here, please don’t send me away.”

A choked sob escaped Aziraphale’s throat as his left hand shot forward to grab onto Crowley’s right. In an instant, the man slotted their fingers together, taking a step forward to close the distance between them. Aziraphale looked up with tears streaming down his cheeks and smiled, unable to say any of the words that had bubbled up inside his chest.

Crowley’s free hand came up to trace the outer edge of Aziraphale’s rounded cheek. The blonde-haired man shivered under the touch, heartbeat racing, face pooling with color. Taking a deep breath, the man forced his gaze to remain on Crowley’s as he tried to steady the swell of emotions currently rising within him.

“What is it angel?” the red-haired main murmured, and edge of uncertainty to his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Nothing is wrong, dearest. How could you ever think that I could feel anything but unbridled joy that you are back in my life once more?”

At such a declaration, Crowley’s eyes, too, began to tear up. A wide smile appeared on his face and breathed out what could only be interpreted as a sigh of relief as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s. For a moment that seemed to last a lifetime and no time at all, the two men stood there, hand in hand, forehead against forehead, not willing to budge an inch.

Then, Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and he caught sight of something out the window. It was a brief flash of motion. Likely a pigeon flying by and nothing more, but the thought of what it could have been sent a spark of fear down the man’s spine. They were too open here behind the closed door of the bookshop. Too vulnerable. Anyone with eyes enough to see might notice them. And anyone who noticed them would be enough to have Crowley ripped from his life forever.

“Come, dearest,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning back from their embrace, but keeping Crowley’s hand firmly within his own. “Let us find somewhere to talk where passerbys might be more inclined to leave us be.”

It was no secret to either of them that what was here between them was enough to condemn them to a life behind bars. What they were doing here was so very wrong in the eyes of the world. It was enough for them to be hated, scorned, ripped from their families and each other and punished by every means possible except death itself. Aziraphale was not about to let any of that happen to either one of them. He’d waited too long for this. Hoped too hard. The last thing he was about to do was let this gift slip through his fingers once more by doing something as foolish as  _ kissing _ Crowley in front of an open window.

Without another word, Aziraphale lead them both toward the back of the shop. He dodged expertly around shards of glass, stepping over puddles of pear juice and in between stacks of books that he meant to shelve weeks ago. Crowley followed, his hand holding on tight to Aziraphale’s as if he was afraid the man might disappear if he were to let go. 

With their luck, who was to say that wasn’t the case?

A single high-pitched creak echoed across the shop as Aziraphale opened the door to his back office and brought them both over to a faded, floral patterned couch. It wasn’t an exact replica of the one they’d spent the night together on, but that wasn’t for lack of trying.

If Crowley noticed the similarity, he made no mention of it. Instead, at Aziraphale’s request, he sat down on the far cushion, body turned toward the blonde haired man as Aziraphale hovered on his feet, hand finally pulling itself out of Crowley’s grasp. He watched as Crowley shrugged his shoulders slightly, loosening the gray jacket until he was able to pull it off and fold it gently over the back of the couch. Aziraphale followed suit, wondering if the sudden flash of heat he was feeling was from the coziness of the smaller room or the close proximity he now found himself to the object of his desires. 

“Can I get you anything?” the man offered, suddenly realizing through the haze of this miraculous dream that he had a guest. A guest that had quite obviously traveled a long way. “Some water? Or tea and biscuits?” As a single man living alone in the flat above the bookshop, Aziraphale didn’t have all that much to offer in the ways of food or drink, but he would happily give Crowley anything he asked for. Anything at all.

“No,” the man shook his head, copper strands of his hair shimmering like gold in the lamplight around them. “All I need is you, Aziraphale, please. The rest can wait.”

He would happily give Crowley anything he asked for. Even that.  _ Especially _ that.

Aziraphale fell to the couch beside him, knees brushing up against Crowley’s. They felt so solid against his own, so reassuring. With every touch they shared, every meeting of their eyes, every sigh of breath from Crowley’s lips, Aziraphale’s heart grew more and more sure. This wasn’t a dream. This was  _ real _ . Crowley had come back to him. After all those years apart, Crowley was finally here.

“Where have you  _ been _ ?” Aziraphale asked again after the silence continued to stretch between them. He could feel his heart hammering inside of his chest. Whether from fear or anticipation, he did not know. “I sent you letters, I tried to phone your family. I read through every newspaper article, visited every memorial I could and there was nothing. I thought - I feared you were - ”

The words would not come. No matter how hard Aziraphale tried to force them out, they continued to get lodged in his throat as it constricted with emotion, making it difficult to breathe. Slowly, the blonde haired man looked away, his hands coming to rest gently upon his lap, clutching at each other for some sort of support.

“Aziraphale.”

The gentlest brush of fingers against his rounded cheek caused Aziraphale to look up, startled. His breath hitched in his throat, fire erupting through his veins as the man found himself gazing into those gorgeous eyes once more. The ones he dreamed about every time he closed his eyes. 

Crowley’s hands fell to his lap and Aziraphale found himself wishing they would stay. Wishing they would pull him close once more and kiss him. Wishing they would reassure him that he didn’t have to be afraid anymore. That Crowley was here and he wasn’t going to leave again. He was here to stay and the two of them never need to be parted again. 

“I tried for so long to get to you,” Crowley began explaining. While his hands had pulled away, his eyes had never once left Aziraphale’s face. The man found himself captured by them, unable to look away as he best friend, his beloved, the love of his life, continued. “I’m sure England was left hurt after the war, but you’ve no idea what it was like in Germany. I returned home to nothing. My father died on the Western Front and my mother got sick. I wanted to come find you right away, but I couldn’t just leave her.”

He took a deep breath and plunged onward. “I tried to write you, angel. I  _ swear _ it. At first, I feared something had happened to you and that was why you never responded. It took me two years to realize that none of my letters were coming back to me. That none of them had left the bloody country at all.”

Slowly, unsure of what Crowley’s reaction might be, Aziraphale forced his fingers to unwind from each other. He gently slid his hand across his own lap and then onto Crowley’s, grabbing onto the other man’s hand, offering him a tentative smile despite the persistent ache in his heart. Crowley had tried to write him, all this time. And Aziraphale had never received a single word. How many letters had the man sent? What sorts of things did they say? And what had he thought when he never received a reply.

“I went to the post office directly, after that,” Crowley admitted with a soft snort of indignation. “Told them I wasn’t going to bloody well leave until I saw that my letter got put in the right place. Know what happened? Those bastards had the audacity to call me a traitor to my country. Ripped the letter right out of my hands. Tore it to pieces before they all turned on me. I tried to fight back, but three on one is hardly fair.”

Aziraphale winced, squeezing onto Crowley’s hand even tighter. What kind of person would be lead to violence over a simple letter? They had no idea what was inside that envelope and yet they had destroyed it anyway, just because the address had been for someone “across the pond” as it were. Yes, Aziraphale recognized that if those postal workers had opened the letter and there was anything incriminating written on it’s pages, their actions would have made sense. If Crowley had written  _ anything _ about any remaining feelings he had for Aziraphale or alluded to what had transpired between them that night all those years ago -  _ that  _ would have been grounds for assault or worse. But none of that had happened. According to Crowley, these men had destroyed the letter meant for Aziraphale simply because it had been addressed to Aziraphale. 

“I had no idea if anyone else experienced this sort of treatment,” the red-haired man grumbled, his hand now gripping Aziraphale’s almost painfully as it fought to keep the trembling under control. “Or if it was just my rotten luck. From what I could tell they weren’t letting any personal letters out to any of the enemy countries. Business ventures, sure? But a letter over to your dying grandmother in Scotland or France? Might as well forget about it. Can’t have us common folk fraternizing with the enemy, could they?”

Aziraphale said nothing, choosing to let his companion continue his story. Tendrils of disgust and something akin to rage began to coil within his stomach. What was  _ wrong _ with people? The war was over, wasn’t it? Things had been decided once and for all, so why did everyone insist on treating each other like the enemy? Why couldn’t they all just go back to the way things had been before all the fighting broke out?

“After that, I saved up every penny that I could.” A watery smile forced its way onto Crowley’s face, and for the first time, he looked away. “Without my dad around, we were struggling to get by. I worked extra jobs whenever I could, but it felt like the whole country was floundering, trying to stay afloat. People were out of work. They were starving in the streets. I did what I could but I - ”

He broke off then, seemingly unable to continue. Just as Crowley had done for him before, Aziraphale took that moment to lift his free hand up and place his palm against the side of the man’s stubbled cheek. Amber eyes fluttered shut and Crowley took in a deep breath. Inside his chest, Aziraphale’s heart ached.

“You did what you could,” Aziraphale echoed, understanding just how much pain Crowley must be feeling in that moment. How could he not understand? Aziraphale had felt the same anguish, thinking he hadn’t done enough to find Crowley again. Tearing himself apart trying to think of something else he could try when it looked like hope was nowhere to be found. “And you found me. Against all odds, you found me and you’re  _ here _ and that’s all that matters to me. Crowley, you must know that.”

Crowley laughed. It was half-hearted, filled with disbelief and sorrow, but there was a glimmer of something there, beneath all the layers of pain. “You made it a right pain to track you down, angel. I hope you know that. I’ve been in London nearly two weeks. Do you know how many bloody bookshops there are in this god-forsaken city?”

Aziraphale frowned. What was Crowley on about? Why in the world would Aziraphale know how many bookshops were in London? And even if he did, he hardly saw how any of that was relevant - 

Then, as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning, everything fell into place.

“You remembered,” the man barely had enough strength to breathe. Crowley had  _ remembered _ . He’d arrived to London with practically nothing to his name. No way to contact Aziraphale. No idea where to begin looking. If he’d visited Aziraphale’s old home, Crowley would have seen a family that was very much  _ not  _ Aziraphale’s and probably left it at that. He might not have even knocked on the door if he saw Claire playing outside or Anathema or Newt entering or exiting the front door. He would have assumed Aziraphale’s parents had sold the house to this lovely young couple and that would be that.

He never would have known that both Newton and Anathema could have helped him on his quest. Never would have thought to ask them if they knew a man by the name of Aziraphale Fell or whether he could be found somewhere in the city. And, so, that would leave him with only one clue.

The bookshop.

“Of course I did, angel,” Crowley murmured, lifting a hand to cradle the one Aziraphale had left trembling against his cheek. “You told me once it was your greatest dream. To open a bookshop. I figured after the war that must have been what you’d done. So I checked the whole city, from top to bottom. I’ve been all over. Knightsbridge, Covent Garden, Chelsea. You name it, my feet have walked there. I asked about too, but no one seemed to know your name. I figured they had to be telling the truth. If they’d ever heard it, they’d have remembered it. Aziraphale Fell. Honestly.”

Aziraphale laughed. A full, honest, true laugh. Love bubbled up inside his chest and he knew that if he did not do something about it that instant, he might just burst. Or fall to pieces.

Hand still placed firmly on Crowley’s cheek, the man slid his fingers a few centimeters back so the very tips were resting against the edge of Crowley’s jaw. Then, before his companion could utter another word, Aziraphale pulled him closer and placed a kiss firmly against his lips, trying not to think about the way his heart was hurtling itself into his throat or how the hand still resting with Crowley’s was now trembling uncontrollably or even what Crowley must be thinking this very moment.

Instead, Aziraphale focused on his own feelings. He focused on the love he felt for this man sitting before him, knees pressed up against his own. He focused on the way his soul finally felt at peace after years upon years of restlessness. He focused on how grateful he was to have his best friend back in his life and the hope that he thought was long gone now burning brightly within him as he thought of the future they might now share.

If only Crowley was here to stay.

Gods, he hoped Crowley was here to stay. Aziraphale didn’t know if he could survive another goodbye. Not after everything they had been through.

Crowley melted into the kiss, a soft moan escaping through his lips as he clutched Aziraphale’s hands tighter. A rush of air sounded nearby as the man before him took a sharp breath and shifted forward ever so slightly so that he could be a bit closer, their knees interlocking now like their fingers had been for a while, only the smallest bit of space separating them now.

Oh, how Aziraphale wanted to close that space. He wanted to take Crowley in his arms, feel the man’s weight against him as he had years ago. Wanted to feel the brush of skin against skin and allow his fingers to roam against the constellations of freckles he knew to be hidden beneath the clothing currently covering the man from head to toe.

There would be time for all of that later, Aziraphale reasoned as he finally pulled back from the kiss to gaze at his love once more. For now, the man wanted to enjoy this moment as fully as he could.

“Crowley, my dearest friend,” he breathed, resting their foreheads together as both men struggled to catch their breath, smiles evident on both their faces. “My love. You have to know that my greatest dream has always been you.”

A heartbeat of silence and stillness enveloped the pair and then Crowley was on him, forcing their lips together, pushing Aziraphale back against the couch as his hands flew away, only to return milliseconds later to the top of the man’s waistcoat, dexterous fingers attacking the buttons holding it together despite the way they trembled. For a moment, Aziraphale allowed himself to be lost in the passion, a surge of heat filling him from head to toe, settling in the familiar place below his abdomen. He kissed Crowley back with abandon, sliding his tongue up against the man’s lips in a desperate attempt to pull forth a moan from his lover.

He succeeded, the sound that Crowley made in response went straight to his groin and Aziraphale pulled back, panting with desire as Crowley dipped his head down and began to plant kisses against his neck instead. With every brush of lips, every hint of teeth and tongue Aziraphale found himself getting more and more lost in the pleasure. He felt his hips buck involuntarily as his beloved found one particularly sensitive spot just above his collarbone and Aziraphale let out a low whine of need. Crowley grinned against him and it was all Aziraphale could do not to fall apart right then and there.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale managed to gasp out, moving his hand to the back of the man’s neck, fingers tangling in the strands of red hair, thumb just barely managing to stroke the side of his prickly cheek. “Crowley, love, please. Slow down.”

The man pulled back immediately, his eyes wide with alarm. Aziraphale could see the shimmer of tears reflected in the dim light of the room. He moved quickly, not wanting Crowley to think for an instant that Aziraphale didn’t want this. Didn’t want  _ him _ . Nothing could be further from the truth. 

“Let’s do this one right,” the blonde man murmured, trying to ease the panic he saw reflected in those eyes he loved so much. “There’s no danger here. No soldiers coming to find us. No guns or bombs or cannon shells. It’s just you and me. So why don’t we take our time?”

He paused, moving to sit up, reaching out for Crowley’s hand before pressing a gentle kiss to each knuckle, hoping he didn’t come across as ridiculous as he feared himself to be.

“Let me love you,” Aziraphale continued, trying to make Crowley understand what it was he wanted. What it was that he’d dreamed of for all these years. “Without fear. Let me love you in more than just this moment. Let me love you knowing there will be a tomorrow for you and I. A tomorrow where we finally don’t have to say goodbye.”

* * *

_ Let me love you without fear. Let me love you in more than just this moment. Let me love you knowing there will be a tomorrow for you and I. A tomorrow where we finally don’t have to say goodbye. _

Aziraphale’s words made their way in through Crowley’s ears and settled inside his mind and heart, filling him with a sensation that simultaneously made the man want to leap with joy and cry his eyes out. It was an overwhelming sensation, this love he felt for his best friend. He'd felt the very first sparks of it at the age of fifteen. Now, nearly seventeen years later, Crowley could only marvel at how much that love had grown. Aziraphale was  _ everything _ to him. No matter what challenges they had to face, Crowley knew that he always would be.

“Yes,” he managed to choke out as the fears he’d felt just moments ago melted away under that bright blue gaze. For a brief moment, Crowley had thought he’d misread the situation. He’d been terrified that he’d gone too fast. That Aziraphale had changed his mind. He loved Crowley, that much was clear, but there were many kinds of love. And not all of them were sexual in nature. Not all of them shared the same kind of bond he and Aziraphale had created that night seven years ago.

And if Aziraphale didn’t want that - if the blonde haired angel wanted to be friends, if he wanted to share kisses and nothing more, if he wanted Crowley to pursue him like this was any other relationship, if he wanted Crowley to take things slow, to court him in the shadows until he was ready to give himself over once more, then Crowley would do so. Crowley would give all that to Aziraphale and  _ more. _ Whatever his angel wanted, he would have.

He needn’t have worried. Beneath the love shining through Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley could see that spark of desire. Aziraphale wanted this, wanted  _ him _ . Just as he’d said, he wanted to do this the right way this time. Not hurriedly, amidst an abandoned farmhouse on a faded old couch they could barely fit on together. Not with the nagging fear of being found out at any moment. He wanted them to take their time. To slowly acquaint themselves with each other. To cherish this time they had together, knowing it wouldn’t be the last.

_ It wouldn’t be the last. _

For their entire lives, every memory he had of getting closer to Aziraphale, of realizing what he wanted and how close he was to it, Crowley had been forced to say goodbye. They’d kissed under the summer stars and he’d moved away. They’d planned to go to university together and he’d been forced to say ‘no’. They’d fought each other in a bloody war, had one amazing night together - a night that Crowley had  _ dreamed _ about for years since - and he’d been dragged away from Aziraphale’s side, not knowing if either of them would live through the fighting to see each other again.

Not anymore. Not tonight. Crowley didn’t have to say goodbye. As long as Aziraphale still wanted him, he could  _ stay. _

“Yes, please, angel,” the man tried again, leaning forward to press a tentative kiss to Aziraphale’s lips once more, his fingertips lifting to brush that soft round cheek. “I want that. That’s all I want. All I’ve ever wanted.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, a smile brighter than the sun itself and Crowley was gone. He barely registered anything at all as the other man took him by the hand and led him up the rickety staircase and up into the flat that lay above the bookshop. He was lost. Lost in the memory of a Christmas that had passed by an eternity ago and a song and a smile that he’d kept close to his heart ever since.

_ Hark the herald angels sing! Glory to the newborn king. Peace on Earth and mercy mild. God and sinners reconciled. _

“It’s not much,” Aziraphale was saying as they crossed the threshold to the bedroom. The room was dim, the only light filtering in from the tiny gap in the curtains - blue and white tartan, matching the same pattern as the quilt lying across his bed. “But it’s home.”

He turned toward Crowley then, taking a small step forward so their chests were almost touching. The tantalizing proximity to the man standing before him made Crowley’s throat constrict with emotion, his stomach clenching with desire. He hovered there for a moment, fingers barely daring to dance across the skin of Aziraphale’s wrist as he looked down into those blue eyes he loved so much.

“I love you,” Crowley found himself saying, as if Aziraphale couldn’t feel the very emotions pouring out from all places within him. “Angel, I’ve loved you from the moment I met you.”

Aziraphale smiled again, warm and bright and filled with an adoration Crowley had feared he might never see again. He had been so determined to find Aziraphale again, so desperate in his search that until that very moment, with Aziraphale’s hand in his, smiling up at him in the dimly lit bedroom, that the man finally allowed himself to  _ believe _ that this was real. He was really here. After years of saving up money, months of work to get his papers in order, weeks of travelling to the city and searching street by street, store by store, he was finally here in his angel’s arms. An angel who loved him, who wanted him.

It was more than Crowley had ever thought to hope for, and it practically overwhelmed him.

“I love you too, my dearest Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, fingertips lifting to dance across the side of Crowley’s stubbly cheek, reaching back to the base of his hair as his angel pulled him closer for a soft, sweet kiss. Not wanting to rush things again, Crowley took his time, lifting both hands to cup the man’s neck before slowly moving them down to continue where he’d left off undoing the buttons. 

One by one, they came undone as Crowley’s hands traveled further downward. He forced himself to go slow, taking the time to brush the very tips of his fingers against the soft curls of the man’s chest. Relishing every shudder that reverberated through his partner’s body as he undressed him piece by piece.

When the waistcoat had been opened and he reached the last button on Aziraphale’s dress shirt, he felt the man tense beneath his touch. This movement was different from everything that had happened up until this point, causing Crowley to pull back, amber eyes searching the round face for signs of what was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, noticing how the blue eyes were turned away, seeing the faint tinge against his cheeks even in the darkened room. “Angel?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, my dear,” Aziraphale responded in a tone that very clearly stated it was absolutely something. Gently, his hands came to rest on the bottom of Crowley’s shirt against buttons he hadn’t even begun to undo. “Don’t mind me.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley reached up to place two fingers curled under the man’s chin, guiding the blue eyes back up to meet his own. “We don’t have to do this, if you’re not ready. If you don’t want this. I’m just so goddamn happy to have you back in my life, angel. I don’t need anything else but you. However much you are willing to give and not a bit more.”

Tears gathered at the corner of the man’s eyes as he began to fluttered his eyelashes, no doubt trying to blink them away. “I want to give you  _ everything _ , Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered in the space between them, eyes finally fluttering shut as he leaned into Crowley’s touch. The man waited, not daring to say a word as his angel struggled to find the words he wanted to say.

“It’s just - ” Aziraphale finally breathed, “I’m not exactly what I used to be.” His eyes opened for a fraction of a second before flickering down to look at his own body. “I’ve gotten a bit...fuller over the years, I suppose you would say.  _ Softer _ . And I didn’t know if - well, you’re obviously so much more - ”

“ _ Angel _ ,” Crowley began, stopping him mid thought, knowing exactly where this was going. “Look at me, yeah? I’m a skeleton wrapped in a bag of skin. I’m angles and sharpness and you are warm and filled with life and yes, you’re soft, and  _ beautiful _ and I love that about you. I’ve always loved that about you. And I know the differences between us weren’t so clear back then after years of fighting in a war, but the fact that they’re obvious now does not change how much I  _ want _ you, Aziraphale. Every bit of you.”

Crowley leaned forward and pressed their lips together in another kiss before slowly shifting his lips to the side, kissing up Aziraphale’s jawline to the base of his ear where he left a small nibble, relishing in the sharp hiss of breath such an action drew from his partner. 

“I want to love every piece of you, Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, peppering kisses down the man’s neck, hearing him moan as he struggled not to seem too eager. Even though they weren’t touching below their waists, Crowley could feel the heat of anticipation between the two of them. He was already straining against the confines of his trousers as his tongue brushed up against the soft skin beneath him, wondering if his angel could be feeling the same way. “Every inch of soft skin, every shimmering stretch mark, every crevice of warmth. Angel, I want it  _ all. _ ”

Aziraphale’s knees buckled at this final admission and he fell backwards onto the bed, dragging Crowley along with him. Although they were trembling, Aziraphale’s hands made their way expertly up the length of Crowley’s shirt, pushing it off at the shoulders when the last button was undone. Both shirts found their way onto the floor as the red-haired man reached down to unfasten the trousers so he could be rid of them too.

Just because Aziraphale wanted to take his time didn’t mean they had to remain covered for centuries. He’d waited long enough for this. Crowley could still move as slow as Aziraphale wanted, even without clothes.

It was funny, how he could be so aware of his surroundings, so dialed into the sensation of Aziraphale’s hand in his hair, Aziraphale’s lips against his, his cock straining against the last layer of fabric containing it, that Crowley could completely forget about the nearly six centimeter long gash that ran down the length of his left leg and what a complete and utter shock it would be to Aziraphale the moment Crowley’s trouser’s were removed.

At the man’s soft gasp, Crowley pulled back, giving his trousers one last kick, sending them flying across the room, before he moved to sit on the bed beside Aziraphale. They had both been reduced to their underwear and socks, shoes also coming off somewhere in the tussle. Aziraphale’s eyes were focused intently on Crowley’s lower half, but the man knew deep down it wasn’t the bulge in his pants his lover was eyeing, but the scar that lay several centimeters below it.

“You’re hurt,” Aziraphale breathed and Crowley sighed, letting the tension leak out of his body. They would get back into the moment, he was sure of it. For now, Aziraphale was worried and it was ultimately Crowley’s fault. He needed to make this right before the man beside him would be able to focus on anything else outside of Crowley’s years old pain.

“Was hurt,” the red-haired man amended, reaching a hand forward to guide Aziraphale’s fingers to the patch of raised tissue. He shivered at the contact, but did not pull away. The wound didn’t hurt any longer. Not physically, at any rate. All it did was remind him of one glorious night where his dreams had come true, and the morning after that had shattered them all into a million pieces. 

“I had to give them a reason to believe me,” Crowley found himself explaining, needing Aziraphale to understand. Sensing that this was something they both needed to talk through. “They were unforgiving to deserters back then. I knew if they found me in that house, even if I was alone, they would assume I’d been trying to escape. They wouldn’t have listened to a word I said. I had to give them irrefutable proof that I was physically unable to return to camp on my own.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “You - you did this to yourself? With my - ”

Crowley nodded, pressing forward, not liking the way his heart was beginning to ache inside his chest at the thought that his angel might blame himself for any of this. “Yes, Aziraphale. I stabbed myself in the leg with your knife. To make those other soldiers believe that I had been stranded there. They took me back to camp, got me to a medical tent and patched me up and I was fine. I couldn’t fly for a while after that, which quite honestly I was thankful for. The thought of you out there - that something I saw or reported back could lead to - ”

He couldn’t finish the thought, and the squeeze of Aziraphale’s hand on his own told him that he didn’t need to. While their experiences had most certainly been different, both men had dealt with the pain and fear knowing the other was out there somewhere. Terrified that their actions each and every day might result in the destruction of the very thing they loved most in the world. Crowley didn’t need to say it out loud for Aziraphale to understand what he meant. There was no way for him not to already know.

“Come, love,” Aziraphale was the first to break the silence, rising to his feet to remove the rest of the clothes separating him from Crowley’s sights. The man’s breath stilled in his chest as his eyes immediately fell to the thick member flushed pink with desire, standing straight out now that there was nothing to hold it back. Saliva pooled underneath Crowley’s tongue at the memory of that wonderful taste. He wanted nothing more than to throw Aziraphale back on the mattress right now and have his way with the man, but sheer force of will held him back. He would not go too fast. He would follow Aziraphale’s lead. “Let us put those terrible memories behind. Help me make new memories, together?”

“Yes,” the man croaked out, ridding himself of every bit of fabric still clinging to his skin before climbing onto the bed beside where Aziraphale once sat. moments later, the man joined him, immediately lying down with his back against the blue tartan comforter as he reached a hand over to pull Crowley into a kiss. 

The man melted into it, quickly shifting his leg so he was straddling Aziraphale, the tip of his cock brushing up against the soft rolls of Aziraphale’s belly. A groan rolled up from deep within Crowley’s chest and he rutted forward, sparks of energy pulsing through his veins as heat pooled in his abdomen. Aziraphale’s breath hitched as he squirmed beneath Crowley, a slow whine escaping past his lips. 

Behind the kiss, Crowley smirked.

“What is it you want, angel?” he asked, lips hovering over Aziraphale’s face, fingers tantalizingly close as they just barely brushed up against the skin of his angel’s arms, his side, down to his waist and across the top of his plush thighs. Crowley bit back a whine of his own as he thought of what it might feel like to bury his head between those plump thighs and let his mouth explore Aziraphale in all the ways he’d imagined himself doing these past seven years. “Tell me, anything you want, and it’s yours.”

“I want,” Aziraphale moaned as Crowley’s hand came to rest on his cock. Still and silent, the barest hint of pressure as he waited to see what his lover might request. “I want - to make you happy. Crowley,” he gasped, flexing his hips to rub up against the red-haired man’s palm. Crowley applied just the barest of pressure, wanting to see his angel unravel beneath him, strand by strand. Perhaps this ‘slow’ business wasn’t so bad after all. “I want you to forget about all the others. Want you to remember only me.”

Crowley’s heart thudded in his chest. “Oh, angel,” he breathed as Aziraphale’s blue eyes fluttered open, pupils wide and nearly encompassing the soft color around them. The desire he saw reflected back was enough to drive him to madness, except for this annoying ache that had wormed its way back into his chest. How could Aziraphale ever think anyone else could hold a candle to him? How could he believe that Crowley would ever want anyone else the way he wanted - needed - his angel?

“Nothing,  _ no one _ , could ever come close to you in my heart. I want you to know that.” He removed his hand from around the other man’s cock, needing Aziraphale to believe that this was more to him than a way to get off. Gently he lifted those same fingers to brush the curls away from the man’s forehead, tracing the lines around his eyes and down the side of his cheeks where his dimples appeared during only his brightest smiles. Eventually, he came to hover over Aziraphale’s lips, leaning down to brush a kiss against them, hoping the beard that was starting to grow in wasn’t too uncomfortable to bear.

“I may have some experience when it comes to this,” he admitted, a wave of shame coming over him. It wasn’t as if he’d done those things to hurt Aziraphale. Quite the opposite. Crowley had only had a few sexual partners in his life, amounting to a number of one-night stands he could count on one hand. He remembered exactly what had led him to them. The overwhelming uncertainty and loneliness he’d felt in those nights as he lay in someone else’s bed, unable to sleep, wishing that if he closed his eyes, when he opened them, there might be an angel there beside him, his sure, strong arms wrapped tightly around Crowley’s thin frame. “But not nearly as much as you think.”

“You are the only one that has ever mattered,” Crowley continued, feeling the emotions getting lodged in his throat. He pushed through, realizing that this was something he needed to say. Something Aziraphale needed to hear. “Through it all, I closed my eyes and thought of you. Your laugh and your smile and your gorgeous eyes. I was young and stupid and so scared you didn’t want me anymore. I lacked faith - in you, and myself, and this wonderful thing that’s between us, but none of that is your fault.”

He smiled, warm and bright and filled with love. Aziraphale sobbed, a single tear streaking down the side of his face until it lay nestled inside his ear. His angel smiled back and in that moment, Crowley knew everything was going to be ok. “I found you, Aziraphale,” he continued, pressing another kiss to the man’s lips. His nose. His forehead. The side of his eyes where the salty water had slipped through. “I found you in the middle of a battlefield and you took me to safety and I swear to all that is holy or otherwise, I have not looked back since that night we spent together. It has always been and will always be you.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale sobbed, arms reaching up to pull him in tightly. Crowley allowed himself to be lowered onto the man’s chest, relishing the warmth he exuded from every part of him. “Darling, I love you so much.”

“And I, you, my angel.”

They kissed again, this time with more intention and force behind it. Crowley groaned into Aziraphale’s mouth as he felt the man’s cock twitch against his own. Things were heating up again and this time, the man wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold himself back. He needed Aziraphale, badly,  _ desperately _ , or he was afraid he’d start unraveling at the seams. 

“Please, angel,” Crowley moaned as the other man’s hips jutted upward, sending sparks of pleasure into his stomach and shooting down to the tips of his toes. “Tell me what I can do. Tell me what you want. Please, Aziraphale, I’m  _ begging _ you.”

In that moment, Aziraphale pulled away, his hands coming up to thread through Crowley’s ember tangle of hair as he pulled the man’s ear down to brush against his lips. Crowley shuddered at the contact, feeling his cock pulse with desire, a bead of precum pooling at the tip before dripping down onto the base of Aziraphale’s rounded belly. 

“I want to feel you, dearest,” he breathed and Crowley groaned, driving his hips down so that his lover could feel how much he was  _ wanted _ . A devilish grin tugged at the corner of Crowley’s mouth as, for the briefest of moments, he reduced his normally eloquent friend to a pile of writhing body parts, desperate for more contact.

“Please, Crowley,” the man beneath him begged, pupils nearly encapsulating the iris now. “I need to feel you inside me,  _ now. _ ”

Whatever Crowley had been expecting, that hadn’t been it. He could practically feel his own pupils dilating with desire as that image exploded in his mind. Aziraphale wanted him to - he wanted - 

“Gods,  _ yes _ .” His eyes darted around faster than he could take in the information they were currently processing. A long arm shot out, fumbling for the handle on the bedside drawer, hoping beyond hope that there was something there he could use.

“Looks like you came prepared,” the man teased, his eyebrows wiggling in amusement as, below him, Aziraphale flushed a bright pink. Slowly, he leaned back, rocking his hips forward to draw out another gasp of pleasure from his partner as Crowley held up the small bottle of liquid.

“Tell me, angel,” Crowley whispered, rising back up to his knees and scooting backward to allow himself better access. A flurry of nerves took over the inside of his stomach for a moment and the man desperately tried not to let them show. He’d never actually done this bit before. Sure, he’d had it done to him a few times. Enough to know what felt good, but this was Aziraphale’s first. He was trusting Crowley with so much and the thought that Crowley might disappoint him was almost too much to handle.

“What is it you think of?” he asked as he coated his finger with the substance, lightly tracing the rim of Aziraphale’s entrance, stomach erupting with heat as the man’s tiny whimpers and moans filled the room. “When you lie in bed at night. What is it you imagine? Tell me what it is you dream of and I’ll make it come true.”

“I see stars,” Aziraphale panted, surprising Crowley once more. He wasn’t sure he’d been expecting the man to answer his questions, but he found himself hanging on every word. “Hanging up above us in the sky. Shining - so brightly...brighter than - I’ve ever seen.”

With each phrase, Crowley pushed his finger in a little deeper, opening up the entrance, loosening the tight muscles and doing his best to prepare Aziraphale for what he really wanted. The man’s moans rose in pitch and volume with each shift of the digit, his hands grasping at the covers beneath them as he fought for some leverage, some way to gorge himself on the slim finger, seeking out relief he instinctively knew was there, just beyond his reach.

“I see stars,” Aziraphale repeated, a high pitched whine piercing the room as Crowley inserted a second, moisture coated finger beside the first, stretching him out and searching for that spot that he knew would drive the man wild. “As we lay -on the - cool summer - grass. You - ”

A sound that almost sounded like a scream erupted from the blonde haired man’s lips as Crowley hooked his pointer and middle fingers, pressing down on the inner wall of Aziraphale’s opening.  _ There.  _ Based off the loud cries and violent rocking of his lover’s hips, Crowley had found the perfect spot. He pressed down again, just to be sure and Aziraphale’s hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist and pushing him all the way in.

“More,” the man practically cried, desire seeping out of every syllable. Crowley groaned and shifted, rubbing his aching member up against Aziraphale’s thigh in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure mounting up within him. The skin was softer than he ever could have imagined and the man nearly lost control there. Forget penetration, Crowley could finish just from wedging himself between those perfectly lush legs. He was sure of it.

“ _ Crowley _ ,” the keening cries of his lover brought him back to the present. He smiled gently and leaned down, capturing Aziraphale’s lips within his own. It was impossible, he knew, but he tried to pour every ounce of love and adoration he had for this man into the kiss, willing Aziraphale to understand how much he wanted this. Not just now. Not just tonight, but all the rest of the days of his life. 

“Please, Crowley. I need you. You promised.”

“I promised?” the man asked, slipping a third and final finger inside as gently as he could, wanting to show Aziraphale as much pleasure as he could handle without exciting the man too much. His angel had asked for one specific thing, and Crowley would be damned if he delivered anything less.

“To take me to the stars.” Aziraphale was trembling now, writhing with every small movement of Crowley’s hand. His cock was overflowing, a stream of precum dripping down the underside, all the way down to the nest of blonde curls that formed at the base. “Sixteen years ago you promised to take me to the stars someday,” he forced out in a single breath, eyes blown wide and almost feral-like. “Please, don’t make me wait any longer.”

Understanding crashed into him like waves upon a rocky shoreline. Without another word, Crowley removed his fingers from Aziraphale and quickly coated himself, shivering as the cool liquid slid over the sensitive skin. The man beneath him whimpered at the loss of contact but was quickly gasping for air as Crowley lined himself up and pushed inward.

“Oh heavens,  _ Aziraphale, _ ” the red-haired man found himself unable to stop himself as he slowly moved forward, feeling the tight walls of muscle clamping down on him. Pleasure shot up his stomach, shooting through his chest and up over his shoulders before turning around and running right back down the length of his arm. They trembled with the impact, barely able to kep himself upright as he bottomed out, panting with every small motion. “You feel amazing.”

A soft chuckle, strained, but very much present sounded and Crowley looked down. Amber eyes met sky blue and suddenly the man felt tears pooling up within them. He smiled down and the man lying beneath him, cheeks flushed with warmth, curls splayed out in a halo around his head. Aziraphale, his angel, was so goddamn  _ beautiful _ . Crowley was sure he would never get enough of this sight, for as long as he lived.

“Pardon my language, my dear, but could you bloody well move things along?”

Crowley laughed, tossing his head back, already feeling the strands of his hair clinging to his forehead through the sweat that had pooled there.

“Thought you wanted to go slow,” Crowley grunted in return as he slid out, then back in, trembling with each thrust, sliding comfortably into a rhythm that matched their rapid breaths.

Aziraphale tried to laugh again, but it was cut off prematurely by a deep groan that reverberated throughout his entire body as Crowley changed his angle just enough. Another thrust and he knew he’d found the spot, pressing right up against Aziraphale’s prostate as he slid back and forth, quickly driving the man toward the edge.

“Ungh.” Aziraphale had been reduced to little more than a quivering pile of limbs now. As he continued his thrusting, Crowley leaned down, taking the man’s left nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around several times before lightly pressing his teeth down against it. Aziraphale bucked as a scream ripped from his throat, but surprisingly he wasn’t finished yet. One hand shot up to tangle itself in Crowley’s long hair while the other reached down to the surely aching member that was currently slapping noisily against the skin of the blonde man’s stomach.

“No,” Crowley breathed, stopping Aziraphale’s hand before it could reach its intended target. The man whimpered in frustration, but Crowley simply responded with a loving, yet passionate kiss. “Let me.”

He wrapped his hand around his lover’s cock, quickly falling into step with the rest of their maneuvering. Aziraphale hardly needed much coaxing at this point. He began to thrust up eagerly in to Crowley’s fist, hands coming to rest on Crowley’s thighs of all places. Seconds later, he felt the firm press of fingers against the back of his legs, urging him forward and the man nearly lost all control right there. The pressure that had been building in his abdomen was nearly ready to burst and he let out a huge breath of air as he placed a kiss lovingly on Aziraphale’s nose.

“ _ Angel _ ,” he breathed, tears pooling in his eyes once more. It was all he could say, the only word he remembered how to say. 

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale seemed to be in sync with his own feelings, overwhelmed with pleasure and desperately seeking release. “Crowley, please, I - ”

He felt the muscles around him contract violently as Aziraphale cried out, nails digging into the backs of his legs. Stars erupted behind Crowley’s eyes as he, too, toppled over the edge. Pleasure rolled through him in waves, crashing into his chest and making his arms and legs feel numb for a moment before the prickling sensation of feeling returned to them. He collapsed on top of Aziraphale, unable to hold himself up any longer as the man struggled to regain his breath.

“Thought - I was - the one who - was supposed to - take you to the - stars,” Crowley gasped, turning slightly to nuzzle up against Aziraphale’s neck. He felt butterflies erupt in his stomach as his lover tilted his head to place a kiss against Crowley’s nose. “Not the other way around.”

“My dearest Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured as he gently coaxed Crowley over to the bed beside him, tucking his strong arm around the man’s thin waist to draw him in closer until he was flush against Aziraphale’s soft body. “You were not the only one seeing stars, believe me.”

“Mhhmm,” was the man’s only response. His fingers and toes were still tingling from the residual sensation and an overwhelming warmth had welled up inside of him, covering him from head to foot, coaxing his eyes slowly shut, millimeter by millimeter as he settled into his lover’s comfortable embrace.

“We should clean up, dearest,” came Aziraphale’s soft voice, his nose brushing up against Crowley’s forehead. It was only then that the man realized he could no longer see his angel. Eyelids fluttered open as amber eyes tried to focus on the face hovering mere centimeters, but found that he could not.

“Ngk,” the man grumbled, pressing his face deeper into the warmth of Aziraphale’s neck, placing a light kiss there for good measure. “Don’t wanna.”

Aziraphale laughed, the sound vibrating against Crowley’s nose, making it itch in an irritatingly uncomfortable way. “I’ll do it for us, love. All you have to do is release me for a moment.”

Begrudgingly, he accepted, letting the man climb out from under him and shuffle around the bedroom. Crowley blinked a few times, trying to keep himself awake until Aziraphale came back. If he fell asleep now, how could he be sure he wouldn’t wake up alone? He had to wait for his angel to return and only then would he allow himself to succumb to the sleep he so desperately needed.

Aziraphale didn’t keep him waiting long. He returned moments later with a warm towel and lovingly applied it to Crowley, being careful to mind the sensitive areas before applying a second one to himself. When both men were wiped clean, Crowley shifted to allow Aziraphale to tug the covers loose so they could both clamber inside. It was not nighttime, but apart from the soft light spilling in through the small gap in the curtains, it was impossible to tell exactly what time it was. Not that it much mattered to Crowley. He felt like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in seven years. The man was well overdue for one, no matter what time it started.

“Sleep, my love,” he heard Aziraphale murmur against his ear, the warm breath tickling the tiny, almost invisible hairs that ran along it from top to bottom. “Sleep as long as you like. I will be here when you wake up. We can stay here all morning, just like this. And when we get hungry, I’ll get up and make us bacon and eggs. Would you like that?”

Crowley tried his best to respond through the blanket of warmth and contentment that had wrapped itself around him. His eyelids fluttered, struggling to open, to fight back the darkness creeping in at the edges of his consciousness, but he was too weak, too exhausted to say even a simple _yes_ _please._

And yet, somehow, Aziraphale still understood. He chuckled softly and kissed the top of Crowley’s forehead, lips warm and soft and filling the man with something akin to how he thought heaven might feel.

“Sleep now. Rest your weary eyes. And when you wake, I will be here. And you and I will never be parted again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote 9000 words today :o No idea what came over me, but I'm sure as hell not complaining. Shout-out to the wonderful @Get_Wrexed for the beta (I'm still a little self-conscious about my ability to write smut). Hope you guys enjoyed this and I will be seeing you soon for the final chapter an epilogue. As long as my depression hangs back for a bit, I should be able to finish this story by next weekend. 
> 
> Thank you. I love you all so so much <3 None of this would be possible without lovely readers like yourselves. You all rock!


	21. Part 3: April 12, 1923

The first thing he felt upon regaining consciousness was a pair of strong, warm arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling, but was somehow the only right thing in a world that was entirely wrong. A rush of cold air entered Crowley’s lungs as they involuntarily sucked a deep breath in, causing the body nestled beneath him to shift back and forth, stirring from the depths of its slumber.

“Good morning,  _ dearest _ ,” the angelic voice murmured, the sound of it still tinged with sleep and Crowley felt tears surfacing at the edges of his eyes. The man squeezed his eyelids shut tighter and pressed his face into the soft skin of the neck beside him. He pressed a gentle kiss to it, heart fluttering at the content sigh that sounded just above his head. A smile tugged at his lips and Crowley clutched at the man, wanting to press himself into Aziraphale’s plush stomach as far as he could go. Never wanting to leave this embrace.

“Mhmph,” Crowley managed to grunt out, the chuckled response setting his heart aflutter. “Must be mistaken. It can’t be morning yet.”

Aziraphale laughed. “The sunlight peeking in through the window would say otherwise, my love.”

_ My love. _ Crowley had to squeeze back his tears at that admission. He could hardly believe this was real. After all this time, all those nights spent alone, wishing, wanting, he was finally here. He was here in Aziraphale’s home. In Aziraphale’s  _ bed _ . And he didn’t have to leave. Didn’t have to go anywhere at all. He could stay here for as long as he liked.

A sentiment that was soon contradicted as the body beneath him shifted once more. Crowley whined in protest, to the bemusement of the man currently wriggling out from underneath his grasp.

“As much as I love laying here with you,” the blonde man started, rising to his feet and walking a few steps over to the door of his closet. Crowley blinked his eyes open and watched, unabashedly taking in his lover’s form. Aziraphale was strong underneath all the softness. Crowley could see it in the way his shoulders rippled with each finite movement. Could see it in the muscles that shifted beneath his thighs and his arse as he shifted his weight back and forth. Even his belly, which was hardly much to fret over, looked appealing to Crowley. 

The man stifled his groan this time, turning his attention to anything but the beautiful man standing naked before him. At this rate, if he couldn’t get control over himself, they might never leave the bedroom. Which, of course, would be perfectly alright with Crowley.

“You and I both missed dinner last night, you know,” Aziraphale pointed out, pulling on his underwear, followed closely by a fresh set of trousers. “And as much as I love you, I need sustenance.

Stupid Aziraphale and his stupid logic. Crowley looked up at his angel’s eyes, smiling despite his attempts to look pitiful and pathetic, hoping to lure the man back to bed. Aziraphale simply tutted in response and smiled back, lifting an arm to swing his shirt over to one side and slide it on without another word on the subject.

“Would you like something a bit cleaner?” Aziraphale asked him, glancing back at Crowley still nestled under the covers as he began to do up his shirt one button at a time. “I can’t guarantee they will be a perfect fit, but I have extra shirts and trousers if you’d like to wear them. Yours could use a launder, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Crowley laughed. “Sure thing, angel. I’d love a set of clean clothes.” He forced his amber eyes away from Aziraphale’s form for a moment, taking in the mess of clothing they’d made the previous night in their eagerness. To be fair, Aziraphale’s bedroom wasn’t exactly  _ tidy _ . It was filled to the brim with books and all manner of other trinkets. Nearly every wall was lined with shelf upon shelf crammed full of the dusty tomes. If he didn’t know better, Crowley might have made the claim that there were more books up here than in the shop downstairs.

A glint of light caught his attention. There on the floor, poking out of the front pocket of Aziraphale’s vest was the barest hint of gold. For a moment, Crowley simply stared, his mind not quite comprehending what he was seeing. It was true, he hadn’t seen Aziraphale in seven years and the one night they spent together in France hardly counted as quality time, but he’d never really pegged the man as someone who would be interested in fine jewelry of any kind.

“Oh,” the rest of the words died in his throat. Crowley looked down upon the achingly familiar pocket watch that was nestled in the softness of the fabric surrounding it. At the sound of his voice, Aziraphale looked up, startled, turning his head to follow Crowley’s line of sight until he realized what had caused the change in demeanor.

“Oh,” he echoed, a light blush dusting his cheeks, but Crowley took no notice. He could hardly see anything at all but that small object, with the worn down ridge lines and the tips of a pair of magnificent angel wings peeking out from within the folds of cloth. Footsteps sounded beside him and Crowley’s head turned on its own accord, amber eyes wide as he watched the man before him, clothed in only a pair of brown trousers and a half buttoned white shirt, stoop down to pick the item up. He turned it over in his hands a few times, blue eyes shimmering in the softly lit room, before wordlessly handing it over to Crowley.

“You…” he was at a loss for what to say. The pocket watch weighed comfortably in his hand, anchoring him to this moment as Crowley felt the gentle tick of the second hand reverberating across his palm. “You kept this. All this time.”

The bed shifted beside him as Aziraphale sat down. Without thinking, Crowley scooted over, pulling the covers as far over his legs as they would go as he curled his toes up under them, seeking what little warmth he could find. The man’s bare shoulder brushed up against Aziraphale’s strong arm and he leaned into the touch, eyes never leaving the delicate piece of machinery cradled in his hand.

“That’s not the only thing I kept.”

With one fluid motion, Aziraphale reached over and expertly slotted his finger up against the clasp that held it together. The watch sprung open before Crowley’s very eyes, revealing the ivory face, sure and steady black hands that continued to march around in circle after circle, and the faded photograph pasted on the inside of the outer cover.

Crowley had no words. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as he gazed down at the familiar face smiling up at him. He didn’t need to see the details of the photograph - wouldn’t have been able even if he’d wanted to - to know exactly what it looked like. A boy no older than fifteen. Shoulder length wavy hair. Black dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. One hand shoved into the deep pockets of his trousers while the other had slipped up behind the edge of some kind of plush creature beside him. 

He could not see it in this half of the photograph, but Crowley knew exactly what was at the edge of his likeness. He would know the arm of that tartan bear anywhere because he had gazed upon it, and the younger version of this man sitting beside him, this man that he  _ loved _ . This man that was telling him, with this very photograph, that he’d loved Crowley back all this time.

Aziraphale, like Crowley, had never stopped.

“Are you alright, Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale was worried. Of course he was worried. Crowley chuckled despite the tears pouring from his eyes. He was hovering over the edge of something - despair or longing or unbridled joy, Crowley had no idea. All he knew is a sob was currently clawing its way out of his chest and he was violently trying to hold it back, to not fall apart here in the place where he finally had everything his heart and soul had ever wanted. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale continued when the red-haired man did not respond. Crowley’s heart ached. Sorry? What did he have to be sorry for? Was he sorry for loving Crowley? Sorry for making him cry? Sorry for keeping the photograph? He wanted to ask. Was  _ yearning _ to know, but the words would not come. “You and I were apart for so long,” he tried to explain and a fresh wave of hot tears poured down Crowley’s cheeks. “The photo and watch were all I had of you, and I  _ missed _ you so much. We got sent off to war and I just - I knew I wouldn’t make it unless I had part of you with me.”

Shifting the watch gently into the palm of his left hand, Crowley lifted the other to wipe at the moisture on his face as his lover continued. “I honestly didn’t think you’d ever see this. And the last thing that I want is for you to feel upset or guilty in any way. You know that I don’t blame you for  _ any _ of the time that we spent apart - ”

Crowley shook his head violently, lifting his head to look around the room. He could hardly formulate a single thought let alone say anything and yet the words managed to slip out on their own accord. “My jacket.”

Aziraphale started. “What?” he asked, completely confounded by Crowley’s inability to explain himself through the torrent of thoughts and feelings whirling around inside of him that very moment.

“My jacket,” Crowley reiterated, eyes still scanning the area for where it had fallen. “In the pocket of my jacket - where is it?”

For a moment, Aziraphale turned away, his bright blue eyes joining in on the search. Crowley could clearly see his trousers and shirt left in a pile on the floor, along with the clothes Aziraphale had worn last night, but there was no jacket hidden amongst the tanned fabric. “I believe we left our jackets downstairs. Would you like me to go down and fetch it for you?”

Once again, Crowley shook his head. There was no need. He supposed now was as good a time as any to get out of bed. Especially since he was fairly certain the heart hammering away inside his chest wasn’t going to let up until he explained to Aziraphale the amazing revelation he had just made.

He dressed in a flash, handing the watch back over with no explanation, clothes practically flying onto him as thin, wiry fingers scrambled up the buttons of the shirt Aziraphale had laid out for him. Next came his underwear and trousers. They were tan, like all the other clothes the blonde haired man chose to wear, but in that moment Crowley didn’t mind one bit. He shoved the slightly too large dress shirt in, buttoned up the front of the cream clothing and practically raced down the stairs, Aziraphale hot on his heels.

There! Laying across the back of the couch just as he’d left it was the blasted grey jacket. Crowley’s hands lunged for it, feeling around in the fabric until he located what he’d been looking for. A small tin canister keeping his most precious possession safe from harm, no matter what hell he chose to carry it through next.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, hovering just behind him as the man fished out the small metal tin he had tucked inside. Even though he could not see the man’s face, Crowley could most certainly hear the worry in his angel’s voice. How did the man not see? Did he really think it impossible that Crowley might have done the same thing? “What is this all about?” 

“You have no reason to apologize,” he began, turning to face the shorter man, offering up the container in his outstretched hands, “for doing exactly as I would have done. As I did.”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes widened as he took the tin box with trembling hands. Seconds later it was open, revealing the other half of the torn photograph. Faded with time and worn at the edges, but still very much a beloved picture of the man now standing before him. The man that he hoped would be standing beside him for the rest of the years they had left. 

“Oh,  _ Crowley, _ ” Aziraphale breathed, tears of his own surfacing as he gently set the tin down on the table closest to the couch so he could examine the picture more closely. Then, taking a single step forward, the blonde haired man rested the palm of his hand against Crowley’s bearded cheek, pulling him in for a soft kiss.

“I love you.”

Crowley beamed, chasing Aziraphale’s lips with his own, not quite ready to move on to whatever they had next that day. Much preferring the option to remain right here, doing just this. “I love you too, angel.”

Wordlessly, the blonde-haired man handed over the photograph of himself and fished out the one now resting in his left trouser pocket. Crowley watched attentively as Aziraphale flipped open the watch face once more, his smooth fingernails prying up the edge of the worn paper as it slowly worked its way around the circumference of the watch. Bit by bit, Aziraphale coaxed the image out, careful not to tear it in any way until it finally came loose in his hand.

“It is a bit worn,” the man sighed, undoing one fold after another until the photo was laying flat-ish in between his fingers. Gently, with only a slightly trembling hand, Crowley raised his half to align with Aziraphale’s, piecing together the page that had been torn in two all those years ago. 

The edges were worn. The folds creased, but the image still fit together perfectly, like it was meant to be. For a while, Crowley simply stared at it, looking down at those two boys grinning at the camera from ear to ear. The young redhead thinking he was so clever, hand tucked away behind the cover of a tartan bear, resting gently on the blonde boy’s forearm. He had been thrilled by that simple touch. Just as he was now, nearly seventeen years later, as he took a half step sideways and slipped his free hand around Aziraphale’s waist, drawing him close.

“Whatever are we going to do?” Aziraphale sighed, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. Crowley frowned and turned his head ever so slightly, the wild curls atop the man’s head brushing up against the bottom of his nose as he did so. Crowley remained silent as he leaned down to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s head, waiting to see what he might say next.

When he said nothing after several long minutes, Crowley breathed in deep and tried to find something he could say to comfort the man that had utterly and completely captured his heart. “We’ll figure something out, angel,” he began, already wracking his brain for what could be done. “I’ll find a job in town. Rent my own place somewhere nearby. We’ll do dinner together multiple times a week. And I can swing by here anytime you like.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he asserted and Crowley felt his heart sink. Not because he thought Aziraphale was rejecting him, but because deep down, he knew just as well as Aziraphale did that it wouldn’t be enough. Not now. Not after all they’d been through to find each other. Not ever.

“I’d take you away from here if I could, angel, you know that,” Crowley felt himself spilling, hand still hovering in the air in front of them, holding up his half of the picture so the two remained connected. “I’d snap my fingers and transport us to the stars. Some far off planet with forests and rivers and a vast lake where we could build a little cottage and never have to worry about anyone but the two of us. You and I could live together. We could take all your books with us, set up our own little library. You could read and I could work outside in the garden. And then when the sun started to go down we could have dinner together. I could learn to cook all the things you like. Whatever you like and -”

He stopped, face flushing with color as he realized how  _ ridiculous _ that sounded. How presumptuous was he? Assuming that Aziraphale wanted any of that. Yes, Crowley knew Aziraphale loved him. Yes, he knew Aziraphale  _ wanted _ him in a physical way, but none of that gave any reason for him to believe these dreams of his - these utterly mundane, domestic imaginings were anything close to what his angel wanted. Aziraphale had his bookshop. He was happy here. Who was Crowley to intrude upon this home he had built for himself?

“Would that be far enough?”

The soft, sorrowful question caused Crowley to pause, but for an entirely different reason this time. He took a step back, hand still brushing against the small of Aziraphale’s back, amber eyes searching the face beside him. Blue eyes shimmering, forehead crinkled with worry, harsh lines at the corners of his mouth. 

“The...stars?” Crowley ventured, unsure what Aziraphale was thinking in that moment, but confident he would share when ready. Sure enough, after a moment more of staring down at the young boys trapped within the torn pages of the photograph, Aziraphale looked back up at him, forcing a smile onto his lips.

“Would the stars be far enough away?” he asked again, lowering his hand finally, pulling the adolescent red-head away from his own likeness and back down to the side of his leg. “Away from all the anger? The hate? Would it be enough to let us live together in peace?”

Crowley blinked, his heart fluttering inside his chest as he took in Aziraphale’s words.

“You...want that?” It was too good to be true, and yet. All evidence pointed to this very fact. Aziraphale said he loved him. Azirapale had left the middle of a battle for him.  _ With  _ him, instead of staying to help his country. Aziraphale had carried around his picture for sixteen years, tucked neatly away in the pocket of his waistcoat, right above the place where his heart sat beating, like the ticking hands of the clock.

_ My love. You have to know that my greatest dream has always been you. _

“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale responded, voice so sure, so certain. There was no judgement behind it. No sense that he thought anything less of Crowley for being so unsure. This was new territory for the both of them. They were thirty-two years old and had both been alone their entire adult lives. And here they were, less than twenty-four hours spent together since they were boys, talking about an eternity together. Crowley would have been mad had he not been unsure. But that was ok. That was what Aziraphale was here for - to reassure him when he was uncertain. Just as Crowley would be, all the rest of their lives. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. I have no reservations here, with us. But I understand if you do. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes. However long it takes.”

Crowley laughed, tears pooling in his eyes as he reached forward and pulled a startled Aziraphale into his arms. Within moments, his angel was hugging him back and it was all the man could do not to float off the ground with the sheer force of joy that overwhelmed his entire being.

“We’ve wasted enough time as it is, don't you think?” Crowley asked pulling away, careful not to damage the torn piece of photograph still pinched between his two fingers. Aziraphale nodded his head vigorously, a soft smile inching its way onto his face as he looked up at Crowley, love shining so brightly in his sky blue eyes.

The red-haired man smiled in return, an idea already forming in his mind. It would take a little bit of time to look into, and it might not even be possible, but if there was even a chance that it could work - that he could carve out a home for him and for the angel that he loved, he would be a fool not to take it.

“I know a place we can go.”

* * *

**April 16, 1923**

The last time he’d stood on this front stoop, Aziraphale had come alone. He’d been desperate, searching for answers to questions he had been asking for nearly half his life. He had been scared and frantic and hoping beyond hope that when he knocked on the door, the answer would be right there. It hadn’t been, and Aziraphale had walked away devastated.

This time, as he raised his hand to knock on the familiar navy door, he felt mostly joy beating through his heavy heart. Crowley was here with him, at last. And although he could not reach out and steady Crowley’s obviously trembling hand with his own as they waited to be welcomed inside, he could finally let his eyes fall upon the densely freckled bridge of his nose, gaze into those brilliant honey colored eyes. Feel his heart flutter every time Crowley so much as looked his way.

They may not be able to hold onto each other out in the open yet. But that didn’t mean Aziraphale was any less thrilled to have Crowley here beside him now as they waited on the front stoop of his childhood home. He felt the taller man shift beside him and Aziraphale turned to offer him what he hoped would be a genuine, reassuring smile.

“Remember when I convinced you to climb out of that window?” The voice beside him sounded as Crowley leaned in to give him a light, friendly nudge with his arm. Aziraphale nodded his head, a blush already rising to his cheeks as he thought about that night all those years ago. The rush of adrenaline as he shimmied his way down the rickety drain. The way Crowley’s hands had caught him as he stumbled, led him through the darkened streets until they made their way to St. James Park. 

“You mean the time when I nearly fell to my doom?” Aziraphale teased back, eliciting a laugh from his lover. Footsteps sounded quietly on the other side of the door. They were light, and quick, and almost certainly belonging to a certain dark-haired, lively little girl. Inside his chest, Aziraphale’s heart leapt in anticipation. Out of the entire Pulsifer family, Claire was the only one who had seen his picture of Crowley. The only one who just might recognize him on sight.

He could hardly believe it. This was really happening. He was really going to reveal his deepest, darkest secret. He was coming here to introduce Crowley to Newt and Anathema, and then he was going to say goodbye.

“Oh come now,” Crowley teased, obviously not picking up on the same gentle sound Aziraphale had. “I told you, I wasn’t going to let you fall. I would have caught you.” He paused, gaze still fixed on the window above - the window that Aziraphale was almost certain belonged to Claire now. “If my memory serves me correctly, I  _ did _ catch you.”

Before Aziraphale could respond the door opened to reveal Claire. Bright eyed, her long black hair tied back in a single braid, reaching halfway down her sky blue dress. Aziraphale squinted through his grin, looking at the patterned fabric. Were those tiny sailboats on the cloth? Or perhaps kites on a string? It was so small, he had trouble deciphering the image and Claire hardly gave him a chance before she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms firmly around his waist.

“Mr. Aziraphale!” she exclaimed, burying her face in his stomach. A soft chuckle escaped Crowley’s lips at the sight and Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He’d only had a few interactions with Claire so far, but Aziraphale felt comfortable enough in who she was to know what might be coming next when she finally took a step back and looked at the man standing beside him.

“Good Morning, Claire dear. Are your parents around?”

She nodded her head, stepping back as soft brown eyes shifted from his form to the one next to him. They went as wide as saucers as Claire took in the man’s face for exactly two seconds before she rushed to welcome him.

“You found him!” she cried with glee, the force of her embrace nearly knocking them both off the edge of the stoop. Only Aziraphale’s quick reflexes saved them as Crowley’s back connected with the man’s strong arm, stopping the pair in their tracks. The red-haired man flashed Aziraphale a look that was a mixture of shock and fear to which Aziraphale only smiled in response. 

He understood Crowley’s hesitancy, but there was nothing to fear here. He would see that soon enough.

“Um,” began Crowley as the child leaned back, her thin arms still firmly wrapped around his slender waist. “Do I know you?”

Claire simply grinned, unfazed by his remark. “You’re Mr. Antony,” she informed him, as if the man had no idea what his name was. “You’re Mr. Aziraphale’s wife!”

Crowley’s amber eyes went wide at that admission and Aziraphale could hold in his laughter no longer. His heart felt light despite the reason they had come here. “Husband is the more appropriate term, my dear,” he explained as he ushered the pair inside, shutting the door behind them. “And he’s not my husband yet.” Aziraphale looked up at this, meeting Crowley’s incredulous gaze, and flushed. Whether he was shocked at the admission that Aziraphale was revealing their secret to a child or that said admission revealed his own desire for them to be married someday, the man did not know. “Perhaps, some day.”

That seemed to be enough of an explanation for Claire. Without another word, she grabbed onto both of their hands and dragged them through the foyer toward the back of the house where her parents must be located. Aziraphale kept his eyes mostly fixed forward as they walked, sneaking a glance every once in a while at Crowley’s face which looked to still be in complete shock.

“Angel,” he murmured as Claire released them, rushing toward the back door leading out to the patio. Peering through the glass, Aziraphale could see two figures sitting side by side, gazing out into the small yard filled with blooming flowers and ivy climbing across the brick wall surrounding it. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Hearing the fear buried deep within his beloved’s voice, Aziraphale stopped and turned to face Crowley. Gently, he took the man’s hands within his own, not missing the panicked look the man shot over to the nearby door that Claire was currently struggling to get open.

“This is a safe place for us,” Aziraphale murmured, tracing his thumb across the soft skin on the back of Crowley’s hand. “Newton fought side by side with me on the frontlines. Apart from you, he is my closest friend. He is a good man, and Anathema and Claire are both absolute darlings.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully, knowing how frightening this must be for Crowley. To reveal how much they meant to each other to complete strangers. How could he ensure this was safe? How could he know that this admission wouldn’t doom the relationship that had only just begun?

“You don’t have to trust them,” Aziraphale stated as he heard the nearby door suddenly pop open. “But I will ask you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale took him by the hand, leading him out toward the back patio. As they crossed over the threshold, Aziraphale felt a gentle tug as Crowley slipped his hand free. A sad smile made its way onto his face, but the man said nothing, choosing to direct his attention to the woman rising to her feet to greet him, gesturing to the empty chair she’d left behind.

“It’s so good to see you, Aziraphale,” she murmured, leaning in for a hug that the man returned eagerly. He remained standing, however, maneuvering so he could stand before Newton, careful not to bump into the cane leaning quietly up against the nearby brick wall.

“Lovely day out, isn't it?” Newton asked, looking up at Aziraphale’s face. His brown eyes shimmered with emotion and Aziraphale knew immediately that his friend had figured out the reason for their visit. He’d heard Crowley’s footsteps approaching, saw the hesitancy written all over Aziraphale’s face. This man knew him all too well, Aziraphale realized. They’d been through hell and back together. Of course Newton would recognize when Aziraphale came to say goodbye.

“Quite,” Aziraphale responded, not sure what else there was to say. How did a person tell one of their dearest friends they were leaving forever? That they were running away to find a new home where they could live their life in peace? “Unusually mild for this time of year.”

Newton smiled. “I like mild,” he admitted softly, eyes sliding past Aziraphale’s standing form to a cluster of purple flowers up against the edge of the nearest wall encircling the garden. There, resting quietly on the petals were two butterflies, flashing bright neon every few seconds as the wings fluttered open and then shut again. “Brings out all sorts of spectacular creatures.”

“They’re migratory, you know,” Anathema piped up after a moment. Aziraphale turned to find she had moved off to the side of the patio, hovering right in front of a rather dense patch of ivy, allowing Claire to take her seat instead. The young girl had several strands of long grass in her hands and was currently weaving together what looked to be some kind of rope or perhaps a crown. “Travel all over Europe and even as far as the northern parts of Africa based off the weather.”

She paused, giving the pair of men a soft, knowing smile. “Trying to keep their families safe.”

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing just how worried he had been until that very moment. Anathema understood. Newton understood. They weren’t upset, or disgusted, or shocked in any way. They knew and they were sad to see Aziraphale go, but they understood.

“Thank you,” he breathed, pushing back the tears that had pooled in his eyes. Claire, noticing his distress, placed her floral craft down on a rickety wooden table and padded over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist for another hug.

Crowley remained silent behind him.

For a while, no one said anything, simply choosing to enjoy the sunlight as it beamed down upon the colorful garden. Butterflies flitted back and forth among the blossoms. Bees buzzed overhead. If he craned his neck in just the right way, Aziraphale could see hints of blue sky as the clouds drifted by overtop the trees. It was a beautiful day, that much was for sure. Exactly like the day had been when Crowley had come to this very same house sixteen years ago to say goodbye.

“Wherever you go,” Newton began after some undetermined amount of time had passed, reaching out one hand to clasp Aziraphale’s. The blonde watched with soft blue eyes as the other hand did the same, reaching out for Crowley’s this time. Without a word, both men offered them up, waiting to see what he might do. “Wherever life may take you.” Without having to take a single step from his chair by his garden, Newton slowly brought the two hands together until they were intertwined. “Know that this house will always be a home to you both.”

Tears pooled in Aziraphale’s eyes as he gazed up at Crowley’s warm amber eyes and the soft smile that was now spreading across his angular features. His heart ached for this goodbye, but he knew that this love he had for Crowley was worth every sacrifice he had to give. He wanted nothing more than to stay here in London and live his life with love, and not by fear, but for right now, that was an impossibility. So, until it was safe to come home, he and Crowley would leave together. And maybe, someday, they would be free to come back.

“May you have gentle winds along your travels,” Anathema added, taking a step forward and beckoning Claire to her side. The child had tears hovering in her eyes, but she smiled at them all the same, clearly understanding the significance of this moment just as much as the adults did. Perhaps even more so. “May you find a place of your own where you feel safe. And know that whatever else the world may say about you, we love you. We will miss you. And when the day comes that the winds bring you back, we will be overjoyed to have you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it everyone <3 All we have left is an Epilogue which will be up either later tonight or tomorrow once I've finished tying it together. I am so very pleased with how this story turned out and I hope you all have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I promise, I'll have a much longer message for you all at the end, but for now, all I can say is thank you.
> 
> Also, if you feel like keeping up to date with my other projects, feel free to find me on social media!
> 
> https://braver-stronger-smarter.tumblr.com/  
> twitter: @beckers522


	22. Epilogue

There is a cottage positioned on the southern coastline of The Netherlands. Nestled in the small forests near Haamstead and less than a mile walk from Boompjesput lake, it was a little corner of Heaven on Earth. Plenty of tall, dark trees that were home to many woodland creatures. Miles of trails to explore during the day and at night along the beaches or in the hilly clearings, the stars shone brighter than they ever could overtop populated cities.

For the longest time, the cottage sat unoccupied. Winds whistling through the cracks around the windows, fireplace empty of any spark of warmth during the long cold nights. Not abandoned. Not forgotten. Simply waiting patiently for its next inhabitants to arrive.

In the late spring of 1923, they did. A taxi rolled up the dusty drive, coming all the way from Rotterdam, and two men clambered out. The taller one went directly to the back of the vehicle and pulled out a set of suitcases, one for each of them, while the shorter, light-haired man thanked their driver profusely before he pulled away. 

That was all they had with them. Two suitcases and hearts full of hope as they stood side by side outside the small building. It wasn’t much at first sight. Ivy clawed and crept its way into every crevice between the brown stone exterior and the thatched roof was almost completely covered by moss. The shutters were tilted, some barely hanging on by a single hinge and the garden was hardly fit to be anything other than a resting place for weeds. 

Still, the front door, while sporting several different colors from various paints chipping over time, was sturdy and strong, the windows not a frame out of place. There was good here along with the bad, and a chance at something truly wonderful.

“We’ll fix it up together, won’t we?” The blonde-haired man asked, a bright shining smile upon his face. “Make it a home of our own.”

An echoing smile appeared on the other man’s face as he jiggled the door open and led them inside the bare structure. All of the rest of their belongings would come later, having been shipped all the way from London. All the books and the furniture and every other knick knack they could not carry with them on the boat ride over. For now, they had each other, an extra set of clothes, and a few blankets tucked away. And that was enough. “Right you are, angel. A home of our very own.”

And that was exactly what they did. Day after day, week after week. One nail and shingle and weed and shelf after the other, the two men slowly transformed the cottage into a home of their very own. They worked all day, and at night when the weather was clear and warm, they would lay outside in the tiny clearing in their yard. Surrounded by trees on all sides, the pair would rest on their backs, hand in hand, gazing up at the stars as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

On one particular night, as the moon hung low in the sky, the half of its face that was showing illuminating the clearing below, Aziraphale and Crowley sat atop their faded tartan blanket enjoying the view. At their side sat a small plate of sliced pears and a thermos of warm tea that the pair partook of bit by bit as the minutes ticked by, keeping time with the watch that was currently resting on the blanket in front of them.

Crowley sat at the back edge of the blanket, his long legs sprawled out in front of them both. The night was warm, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, one arm fixed behind him propping himself up, the other one resting lightly on his lover’s arm. Aziraphale sat nestled in the space between those long legs, his back barely brushing up against the front of his beloved’s chest as they stared up at the bright sky above them. Every so often, Crowley’s hand would begin to wander, lightly tracing patterns across the fabric of Aziraphale’s sleeve, sending shivers down the man’s spine as he fought not to get too distracted by the sensation. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale breathed as he leaned back against Crowley’s slim chest, nestling the thick of his curls into the man’s neck. High above them the twinkling lights began to blur one by one as they streaked across the deep, vast sky. “How wonderful! I’ve never seen one before.”

Behind him, Crowley chuckled, his warm breath feather light against Aziraphale’s ear. “What are you talking about? You’ve seen stars before, angel. Or did I share my very first kiss with some other dashingly handsome blonde?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, reaching his hand over to intertwine his fingers with the ones currently dancing up his arm. Gently, Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hands to his face and placed a kiss on the soft skin there, hoping his love could feel the smile spreading out across his lips. “A meteor shower, dearest,” he amended, the fondness seeping through every syllable. “I have never seen a shooting star before tonight.”

The man grunted in return, squeezing onto Aziraphale’s hand as his head lolled back to take in the spectacular view. Every few seconds one of the pockets of emptiness in the sky above them would brighten as a stream of light shot across from one side to the other. Each time Aziraphale would gasp in wonder and Crowley would hold him just a little tighter, pressing kisses into the side of his face and neck and ear.

Both minds were transported back in time. Back to a park and a blanket much like this one. Back to confessions of love and first touches and promises they could never hope to keep. Promises like spaceships and wondrous journeys. Of unwavering friendship. Promises of eternity.

They had eternity right here now, in their own little piece of Heaven. And as it turned out, Crowley didn’t have to take them to the stars after all. It may have taken seventeen years, but eventually the stars had left their place in Heaven and fallen to Earth. Eventually the stars had come directly to them.

At long last, the hour grew late and the clouds rolled in and both men were forced to retire for the night. With one last kiss shared between them, they gathered up their belongings and headed inside. Aziraphale took the blanket, heading to the sitting room to place it back upon the sofa where it belonged and Crowley took the dishes, returning them to the tiny sink where they would be dealt with another day.

The last stop of the night was one that had become a part of their routine from the first day they’d walked through the door. No matter where they were or what they were doing, before placing that first footstep leading up the stairs to their bedroom, Crowley and Aziraphale would stop in front of the sitting room fireplace, one arm wrapped around the other’s waist, a head of thick blonde curls resting on a tall, somewhat bony shoulder. 

There was nothing special about this fireplace. No wonderful story of how it came to be, no heartwarming memories that were situated around it. As far as fireplaces were concerned, it was rather bare. Simple stone running around the perimeter with a dark stained plank of wood that ran across the top to form the mantle - a mantle that was completely bare except for one single framed photograph. A photograph that had been torn apart, bent, rubbed raw in places, and then stitched back together once more, now held together with a little bit of paste, a dark wooden frame and single piece of glass.

A photograph that would remain on this very mantle for many years to come, serving as a reminder of where they had been and all they’d fought through to someday stand side by side. To laugh and to live and to love,with each other, today and everyday afterwards.

Never to be parted again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sniff* Thank you so much to all of you for taking this incredible journey with me. Thank you for your words of encouragement after each and every chapter. They are honestly what kept me going and allowed me to finish this wonderful tale. Thank you for being patient with me when my depression was too much and I spent weeks staring at an empty page, fearing the words would never come. Thank you for your unbounded excitement every time I returned to gift you with another chapter. Thank you for being you.
> 
> And a special thanks to @Lei_sam for the initial prompt all those months ago. Without you, this story would have never happened. And to @Get_Wrexed for always being there to bounce ideas off and encourage me to look out for myself before everything else <3
> 
> If you liked this story, feel free to check out some of my other works. I've got a wide variety to choose from. If you've got ideas you want to throw my way for future fics, please do. You can find me on tumblr (@braver-stronger-smarter) and twitter (@Beckers522). Please come say hello! I absolutely love talking to new people <3
> 
> For now, I believe it is safe to say "that's all she wrote". I've got plenty of other projects coming down the pipeline. Now that this story is over, I will be switching my attention over to my Hawksong AU "An Angel's Hope" as well as a new Thumbelina X Borrowers AU I've thought up. And in June I'll be posting as part of the Good Omens AU event (my story will be Avatar the Last Airbender themed). As always, thank you for your comments. If you read anything else of mine, please feel free to say something, as hearing from you all makes my entire day so much brighter. I love you all. Stay safe, tell your friends and family you love them, and I will see you all around :)
> 
> -Beckers


	23. Art: The Farmhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up this morning to the most beautiful surprise <3 These lovely images were posted on tumblr by one of my readers @Sani-86 (https://sani-86.tumblr.com/). I am stunned and so overwhelmed with gratitude that my words could inspire something as lovely as this. Thank you so much for sharing your gift with us!!

_Please,_ Aziraphale prayed, pressing the treasure to his chest, remembering picnics and cool grass and bright stars above and summers that he never wanted to end. _Please don’t take him away from me. I’ve only just found him. I know people say loving him is wrong. I know they say it’s a sin. That we’re sick, that we need help. I promise, I’ll never touch him again - never kiss him again or hold him at night. Just, please, don’t take him away. He’s the only thing in this world that I care about. Please let me keep him in my life. Don’t take him away. Please. Please. Please._

* * *

Quickly, quietly, without another word, Crowley gently guided Aziraphale into a soft, slow kiss. Aziraphale melted into it, his arms reaching up to wrap around Crowley’s thin waist, pulling his love closer, if only to feel his presence once more, anchoring him to this moment that was about to come crashing down around the both of them, shattering every happy thought, every bright hope for the future - every dream Aziraphale ever thought to have.

“I love you, angel,” Crowley whispered fiercely, breaking away from the kiss enough so that their eyes met one last time. His amber orbes so intense, studying every inch of Azirpahale’s face, as if this might be the last time he would ever see it. “Never forget that.”


	24. Art: Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guyyyyys!!!!! I was recently gifted this wonderful image of the Epilogue by the wonderfully talented KaykiStar ❤ if you've got the time, I highly suggest checking out some of their artwork. It's gorgeous!! Look at their eyes 😍 I'm so in love!
> 
> www.instagram.com/kaykistar

__

_Crowley sat at the back edge of the blanket, his long legs sprawled out in front of them both. The night was warm, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, one arm fixed behind him propping himself up, the other one resting lightly on his lover’s arm. Aziraphale sat nestled in the space between those long legs, his back barely brushing up against the front of his beloved’s chest as they stared up at the bright sky above them. Every so often, Crowley’s hand would begin to wander, lightly tracing patterns across the fabric of Aziraphale’s sleeve, sending shivers down the man’s spine as he fought not to get too distracted by the sensation._

_“Oh!” Aziraphale breathed as he leaned back against Crowley’s slim chest, nestling the thick of his curls into the man’s neck. High above them the twinkling lights began to blur one by one as they streaked across the deep, vast sky. “How wonderful! I’ve never seen one before.”_

_Behind him, Crowley chuckled, his warm breath feather light against Aziraphale’s ear. “What are you talking about? You’ve seen stars before, angel. Or did I share my very first kiss with some other dashingly handsome blonde?”_

_Aziraphale rolled his eyes, reaching his hand over to intertwine his fingers with the ones currently dancing up his arm. Gently, Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hands to his face and placed a kiss on the soft skin there, hoping his love could feel the smile spreading out across his lips. “A meteor shower, dearest,” he amended, the fondness seeping through every syllable. “I have never seen a shooting star before tonight.”_


End file.
